“Yes,” said Mannering, holding up his thin hand to the light, and thrusting forth a long spindle-shank of a leg, “I’ve pulled through—as much as is left of me. It isn’t a great deal to brag of.”
“Having done that, with proper care I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a long spell of health before you—as much health as a man can expect who despises all the laws of nature—and attain a very respectable age before you die.”
“Here’s promises!” said Mannering. He paused and laughed, and then added in a lower tone: “Do you think that’s so very desirable, after all?”
“Most men like it,” said the doctor; “or, at least, think they do. And for you, who have Dora to think of——”
“Yes, there’s Dora,” the patient said as if to himself.
“That being the case, you are not your own property, don’t you see? You have got to take care of yourself, whether you will or not. You have got to make life livable, now that it’s handed back to you. It’s a responsibility, like another. Having had it handed back to you, as I say, and being comparatively a young man—what are you, fifty?”
“Thereabout; not what you would call the flower of youth.”
“But a very practical, not disagreeable age—good for a great deal yet, if you treat it fairly; but, mind you, capable of giving you a great deal of annoyance, a great deal of trouble, if you don’t.”
“No more before the child,” said Mannering hastily. “We must cut our coat according to our cloth, but she need not be in all our secrets. What! turtle-soup again? Am I to be made an alderman of in spite of myself? No more of this, Hal, if you love me,” he said, shaking his gaunt head at the doctor, who was already disappearing downstairs.
Dr. Roland turned back to nod encouragingly to Dora, and to say: “All right, my dear; keep it up!” But his countenance changed as he turned away again, and when he had knocked and been admitted at Miss Bethune’s door, it was with a melancholy face, and a look of the greatest despondency, that he flung himself into the nearest chair.