“Verdict?” he said faintly. “My business is painting, and I daren't waste time. What do you make of it?”
Again the whirl of words, but this time they conveyed a meaning.
“Can you give me anything to drink?”
Many sentences were pronounced in that darkened room, and the prisoners often needed cheering. Dick found a glass of liqueur brandy in his hand.
“As far as I can gather,” he said, coughing above the spirit, “you call it decay of the optic nerve, or something, and therefore hopeless. What is my time-limit, avoiding all strain and worry?”
“Perhaps one year.”
“My God! And if I don't take care of myself?”
“I really could not say. One cannot ascertain the exact amount of injury inflicted by the sword-cut. The scar is an old one, and—exposure to the strong light of the desert, did you say?—with excessive application to fine work? I really could not say?”
“I beg your pardon, but it has come without any warning. If you will let me, I'll sit here for a minute, and then I'll go. You have been very good in telling me the truth. Without any warning; without any warning. Thanks.”
Dick went into the street, and was rapturously received by Binkie.