There was presently a pause in the conversation; and afterward Harris resolved to prepare Margaret a little for what was coming.
“What do you think took me to London this morning, Madge?” he asked.
“The train, dear.”
“How clever a guesser you are! And the train was punctual. I went to see the great Doctor Fulton.”
“I am glad you did, for Dr. Stapleton is young, and has had comparatively little experience. Have you brought home some medicine? It must be time for you to take it.”
“It is no use to take the medicine. He says that nothing can cure me.”
“Oh, Graf! Graf! You must not say such a thing as that to me.”
“But you must know it, my darling, some time, and soon, for it is not going to be long; and if you love me you will be glad of that, for the pain of the disease which I have is terrible to bear, and it would be hard for you to see me suffer.”
“Oh, my dear, it cannot be! There is surely some other doctor who can do something. What becomes of all this modern science that boasts itself so much if it cannot help one in an emergency like this?”
“It is all right, Madge, dear; a man must die some time. Of course, he does not want to, and never would, but we all have to, you know. Life is very short here, but it is continued somewhere—of that I am increasingly sure.”