Dr. West rose and stretched himself. The failings of Sibylla were not a pleasant topic, thus openly mentioned by Jan; but none knew better than the doctor how true were the grounds on which he spoke. None knew better, either, that disease for her was to be feared.
"Her sisters went off about this age, or a little later," he said musingly. "I could not save them."
"And Sibylla's as surely going after them, doctor, as that I am here," returned Jan. "Lionel intends to call in Dr. Hayes to her."
"Since when has she been so ill?"
"Not since any time in particular. There appears to be no real illness yet—only symptoms. She coughs, and gets as thin as a skeleton. Sometimes I think, if she could call up a cheerful temper, she'd keep well. You will see what you think of her."
The doctor walked towards the bureau at the far corner. "Have you ever opened it, Mr. Jan?"
"It's not likely," said Jan. "Didn't you tell me not to open it? Your own papers are in it, and you hold the key."
"It's not inconvenient to your room, my retaining it I hope?" asked the doctor. "I don't know where else I should put my papers."
"Not a bit of it," said Jan. "Have another in here as well, if you like. It's safe here."
"Do you know, Mr. Jan, I feel as if I'd rather sleep in your little bed to-night than indoors," said the doctor looking at Jan's bed. "The room seems like an old friend to me: I feel at home in it."