"He is," said Portlaw curtly.
"Very ill?"
"Very."
"How ill?"
"Well, he's not dead."
"Portlaw, is he dying?"
"They don't know yet."
"What is the sickness?"
"Pneumonia. I wish to heaven you were here!" he burst out, unable to suppress his smouldering irritation any longer.
"I was going to ask you if you wanted me—"