There had been long silence while Philip ate and drank, his attention wandering frequently from the food till Channah with a watchful word recalled his wits.
"Channah," he said suddenly, "when will she die?"
She was startled. Her cup clattered on the saucer.
"Philip!" she said, in remonstrance.
"Channah," he repeated, "tell me, when will she die? That's what I want to know, how long is there?"
He was speaking in regular, subdued tones, with hardly an inflection in his voice. It seemed the voice almost of one talking in his sleep. An instinct commanded her to remonstrate no further, to fall in at once with this strange mood, to adopt his tones, to reply with no equivocation.
"Not long. Three days ago the doctor said she'd last a week. Yesterday he said she couldn't last above two or three days. But only think—if it had happened before you came back!"
The last consideration made no impression. "Not more than two or three days more?" he repeated.
She nodded.
"That was yesterday?" he said. "So to-morrow is the latest."