She turned to him, still smiling. She answered nothing, but waited for him to continue.
"I wanted to tell you something," he went on steadily. "You know I love you, don't you?"
"Yes," she answered slowly. "You—you said so."
"I said it because I do," he said. "Well, Dr. Van Coller was here yesterday, and when he had done with you, I had a word with him. I wanted to know if I could go Home too; so he came up to my room and made an examination of me, a careful one."
Margaret had ceased to smile. "Yes," she said. "Tell me: what did he say?"
"He said No," replied Ford. "I mustn't leave here. He was very clear about it. I 've got to stay."
The emphasis with which he spoke was merely to make her understand; he invited no pity for himself and felt none. He was merely giving information.
"But," said Margaret,—"never? It isn't as bad as that, is it?"
"He couldn't tell. He isn't really a lung man, you know. But it doesn't make any real difference, now you 're going. Two years or ten years or forever—you 'll be away among other people and I 'll be here and the gap between us will be wider every day. We 've been friends and I had hopes—nothing cures a chap of hoping, not even his lungs; but now I 've got to cure myself of it, because it's no use. I would n't have told you, Margaret—"
"Yes, you would," interrupted Margaret. "You wouldn't have let me go away without knowing, since you—you love me."