"I don't want to talk about yourself," he said.
Her face cleared a little. "That's a relief. I was afraid you were going to talk to me about 'preparing,' and so forth."
A sudden smile twinkled into Dr. Lavendar's old eyes. "My dear Miss Harriet, you've been 'preparing' for fifty years—or is it fifty-one? I've lost count, Harriet. No; you haven't got anything to do about dying; dying is not your business. In fact, I sometimes think it never is our business. Our business is living. Dying is God's affair."
"I haven't any business, that's the worst of it," Miss Harriet said, bitterly. "I've nothing to do—nothing to do but just lie here and wait. I don't mind dying; but to be here in this trap, waiting. And I've always been so busy, I don't know how to do nothing."
"That's what I wanted to say to you. There is something you can do. In fact, there's something you must do."
"Something I must do?" Miss Harriet said, puzzled.
"My dear friend, you must meet this affliction; you can't escape; we can't save you from it. But there is one thing you can do: you can try to spare the pain of it to other people. Set yourself, Miss Harriet, to make it as easy as you can for those who stand by."
Harriet Hutchinson looked at him in amazement. No pity? No condolences? Nothing but the high charge to spare others. "You mean my temper?" she said at last, slowly.
"Yes," said Dr. Lavendar.
Miss Harriet blushed hotly. "It is bad; I know it's bad. But—"