"He's all right now; he's sleeping. But——"
"But what? Tell me, Ted."
"Well, Crashawe was here this morning, and he says he isn't really better."
"But he is better. He said so himself when he examined him yesterday."
"Yes, so he is, in a way. That is, you see, his lungs are all right. It's his heart that's bad now. Crashawe says it must always have been more or less weak. And now——" He stopped short.
"Ted——" she implored.
"It may stop beating any minute."
She said nothing; she only took off her hat and cloak and put on her artist's overall,—it was her nurse's apron now. She must go to Vincent. But a thought struck her before she reached the door.
"Does he know?"
"No; but I think he has some idea. He told Crashawe this morning not to interfere with the course of nature." Ted smiled a dreary smile at the recollection.