“I see.” He nodded. “Yes. That will do—very nicely.”
He led her away to another room—to rest a little before the journey. When he returned his glance met the boy’s absently.
He arranged trifles on his desk—paperweight and pens and blotter—as affairs of importance, before he spoke, casually:
“She will always be ill—Yes. It is a hopeless case—Yes.” He paused a little between the words, giving the boy time. “She will suffer—more than she has yet. But we can help a little.” He had drawn a paper toward him and was writing his hieroglyphics with slow care, not looking up. “We will ease it, all we can. Keep her mind at rest. Make her happy.” He turned his spectacles on the young man. “You can make her happy. That will do more for her than I can.... Will she live? Yes, yes. Longer than the rest, perhaps.... Shall you tell her?—not today, I think—some other time. She is a little tired. She is a brave woman.”
III
SIMEON Tetlow glanced up sharply. The door had opened without a sound. “You ’ve come. Umph!” He shoved the pile of letters from him.
“Sit down.”
The air was full of sunshine. Even in the dingy office it glinted and shone.