"He said he was willing if you were. You're not going to move—are you?"
"No. But you must not talk."
"It's like this. I've got a little property—not much; a little." He was nervously eager about this. If she knew it amounted to anything she would refuse, and the Lindley Grants—— "And when I—you know—— I want to leave it where it will do some good. That little brother of yours—it would send him through college, or help to."
Once, weeks ago, before he became so ill, she had told him of the brother. This in itself was wrong and against the ethics of the profession. One does not speak of oneself or one's family.
"If you won't try to sleep, shall I read to you?"
"Read what?"
"I thought—the Bible, if you wouldn't mind."
"Certainly," he agreed. "I suppose that's the conventional thing; and if it makes you feel any better—— Will you think over what I've been saying?"
"I'll think about it," she said, soothing him like a fretful child, and brought her Bible.
The clock on the near-by town hall struck two as she drew up her chair beside him and commenced to read by the shaded light. Across the courtyard the windows were dim yellowish rectangles, with here and there one brighter than the others that told its own story of sleepless hours. A taxicab rolled along the street outside, carrying a boisterous night party.