“What sort of doctor you are!” I answered with a fair amount of candour. “Here have I been without any one else for three or is it five weeks? You don’t write me prescriptions, nor tell me how I shall live, what to eat, drink, or avoid. You call constantly.”
“Not as often as I should like,” he put in promptly. Then he smiled at me. “You don’t mind my coming?”
“Have you found out what is the matter with me?”
“I know what is the matter with you!”
“Do you know I get weaker instead of stronger?”
“I thought you would.”
“Tell me the truth. Is there no hope for me?”
“Patients ask so often for the truth. But they never want it.”
“I am not like other patients. Haven’t I got a dog’s chance?” He shook his head.
“How long?”