The war went on. The enemy was halted before Paris; the Russians swarmed over Prussia and were promptly driven back, far over their own boundary. Riga began to figure in the dispatches, and life seemed a solemn thing—so solemn that we had no time at all for noticing that something was very much amiss with Babanchik, until he said one evening, diffidently,—
'If you could ask your doctor to stop in—some day.'
We stared at him curiously. Why did he have that ghastly look about him? He was perfectly well only the day before—or was it last week—or was it a month ago? When was it that we had really looked at him? What had checked so suddenly the straightening of his shoulders? We could not say. But we were vaguely ashamed.
The doctor was terse and explicit.
'There is nothing wrong, chronically, save a general hardening of the arteries and a very high blood-pressure. He must have had bad news recently, a sorrow of some sort.'
'Nothing new,' I contradicted. 'He has been perfectly happy until now.'
'The war perhaps? or Russian reverses?'
'Oh,' I answered lightly, 'he cares nothing for the war, and Russian reverses would cause him no sorrow.'
The doctor left no medicine.
'Keep him amused,' he ordered, 'and don’t let him grow excited. That is the only remedy.'