He was telling her about some of his patients. The thing that did surprise him was the interest she seemed to take; active, intelligent interest. Being sick herself, perhaps, gave her a natural sympathy; and she certainly had extraordinary intelligence, even insight. Singular thing for a girl to have!
"But what became of the poor little fellow? did he live? better not, I am sure. I hope he did not."
"Yes; almost a pity, but he did live. Got well, too, after a fashion, but he'll never be able to do anything."
The girl was silent. Presently—"I wonder whether it is worth while to get well after a fashion!" she said. "I wonder if it's worth while to go on living and never be able to do anything. I suppose I shall find out."
"You!" said the young doctor. "You will be entirely well in a year,
Miss Blyth; I'd be willing to wager it."
Vesta shook her head.
"No!" she said. "The spring is broken. There is nothing real the matter with me, I know that well enough. It's nothing but nerves—and heart, and mind; nothing but the whole of my life broken and thrown aside."
She spoke bitterly, and Geoffrey felt a pang of compassion. She was so young, and so pretty—beautiful was the word, rather. It seemed too cruel. If only she would not say anything more about it! How could she? was it because he was a physician? He would go and be a costermonger if that—
"You see," she went on, slowly; "I cared so tremendously. I had thought of nothing else for years, dreamed of nothing else. All there was of me went into it. And then, then—when this came; when he told me—I—it was pretty hard."
The quiver in her voice was controlled instantly, but it was almost worse than the sobs. Geoffrey broke out, fiercely: