“Why do you say that? Of course I've been bad—of course I'm changed.”
“Changed! Look at yourself—and praise God, Alistair.”
He had caught up a hand-mirror that lay on the dressing-table and now put it into my hand. For the first time since the fever I saw my face. It was as it had been and yet it was utterly different, for now it was beautiful. The pinched features seemed to have been smoothed out. The mouth had become firm and masterful. The haggard eyes were alight as if torches burned behind them. My expression, too, was powerful, collected, alert. I scarcely recognised myself. But I pretended to see no change.
“Well—what is it?” I asked, dropping the glass.
The doctor was confused by my calm.
“Your look of health startled me,” he answered, sitting down by the bed and examining me keenly.
All at once I was seized by a strange desire to get up an argument with this man, by whom I had so often been crushed in conversation. I leaned on my elbow in the bed, and fixing my eyes on him, I said:—
“And why should I praise God?”
The doctor seemed in amazement at my tone.
“Because you are a Christian and have been brought back from death,” he replied, but with none of his usual half-sarcastic self-confidence.