“No,” said Lansing; “she can distinguish light from darkness; she can even make out form—in the dark; but a strong light completely blinds her.”
“Can you help her?” asked Coursay, with quick pity.
Lansing did not answer the question, but went on: “It’s been coming on—this blindness—since her fifth year; she could always see to read better in dark corners than in a full light. For the last two years she has not been able to see; and she’s only twenty, Jack—only twenty.”
“Can’t you help her?” repeated Coursay, a painful catch in his throat.
“I haven’t examined her,” said Lansing, curtly.
“But—but you are an expert in that sort of thing,” protested his cousin; “isn’t this in your line?”
“Yes; I sat and talked to her half an hour and did not know she was blind. She has a pair of magnificent deep-blue eyes; nobody, talking to her, could suspect such a thing. Still—her eyes were shaded by her hat.”
“What kind of blindness is it?” asked Coursay, in a shocked voice.
“I think I know,” said Lansing. “I think there can be little doubt that she has a rather unusual form of lamellar cataract.”
“Curable?” motioned Coursay.