There was a silence, broken only by the wife's stifled sobs.
"My God, how sudden it is! and you say it is hopeless?" said Allan, stunned by the sentence of doom.
"To you the thing is sudden; but the mischief is a work of many years. The evil has been there, suspected by your father, but never fully realized. He consulted me ten years ago, and I gave him the best advice the case allowed—prescribed a regimen which I believe he carefully followed—a regimen which consisted chiefly in quietness and careful living. I told him as much as it was absolutely necessary to tell, taking care not to frighten him."
"You did not tell me that he was a doomed man," Lady Emily said reproachfully.
"My dear lady, to have done that would have been to lessen his chance of cheerful surroundings, to run the risk of sad looks where it was most needful he should find hopefulness. Besides, at that stage of the disease, one might hope for the best—even for a long life, under favourable conditions."
"And now—what is the limit of your hope?" asked Allan.
"I cannot measure the sands in the glass. Another attack like that of to-day would, I fear, be fatal. It is a wonder to me that he survived the agony of this morning."
"And you have told us—that agony may return at any hour. Nothing you can do can prevent its recurrence?"
"I fear not; but we shall do the uttermost."
"May I see him?"