“Yes, madam,” he said gravely; “you have everything to live for. If only we knew it, if only we could realise it, all of us in this world have everything to live for.”
She nodded, smiling across the table at him. “Doctor,” she said, “I do not believe I shall ever come back here to see you—as a patient of yours.”
“No,” he affirmed; “I do not believe you will ever come back—as a patient of mine.”
“But, if I may, I should like to come sometimes, just to look at that face—that dead face with its living message for me.”
“Madam,” he told her, “you may have it on two conditions—namely, that you keep it in your own room, and that you do not tell its story—the story I have just told you—to any other person. I have reasons of my own for making those conditions.”
“In my own room is exactly where I would keep it,” she said. “I promise to do as you ask. I shall never part with it. But how can you part with it?”
“Oh, I think I know where I can get another copy,” he said, “The original mould has not been destroyed. I am sure my—my friend—has it. This one will be delivered at your home before night. My servant shall take it to you.”
“No,” she said. “If you do not mind, I shall take it with me now—in my own hands.”
She clasped the gift to her breast, holding it there as though it were a priceless thing—too priceless to be intrusted to the keeping of any other than its possessor.
For perhaps five minutes after the departure of his recent patient the great specialist sat at his desk smiling gently to himself. Then he touched with his forefinger a button under the desk. His manservant entered.