"YOU are not a dying man!" said Gwent, very meaningly—"And I can't make out why you pretend to be one!"
Again Seaton laughed.
"I'm not pretending!—my dear Gwent, we're all dying men! One may die a little faster than another, but it's all the same sort of 'rot, and rot, and thereby hangs a tale!' What's the news in Washington?"
They walked up the hill slowly, side by side.
"Not startling"—answered Gwent—then paused—and repeated—"Not startling—there's nothing startling nowadays—though some folks made a very good show of being startled when my nephew Jack shot himself."
Seaton stopped in his walk.
"Shot himself? That lad? Was he insane?"
"Of course!—according to the coroner. Everybody is called 'insane' who gets out of the world when it's too difficult to live in. Some people would call it sane. I call it just—cowardice! Jack had lost his last chance, you see. Morgana Royal threw him over."
Seaton paced along with a velvet-footed stride like a tiger on a trail.
"Had she led him on?"