The doctor got up, and went to him. “You must be a man,” he said, “and not cry like a child.”
“But sir,” cried the young man, with tears running down his cheeks, “if I had led a wild life, if I had passed my time in dissipation with chorus girls, then I could understand it. Then I would say that I had deserved it.”
The doctor exclaimed with emphasis, “No, no! You would not say it. However, it is of no matter—go on.”
“I tell you that I would say it. I am honest, and I would say that I had deserved it. But no, I have worked, I have been a regular grind. And now, when I think of the shame that is in store for me, the disgusting things, the frightful catastrophes to which I am condemned—”
“What is all this you are telling me?” asked the doctor, laughing.
“Oh, I know, I know!” cried the other, and repeated what his friend had told him about the man in a wheel-chair. “And they used to call me handsome Raoul! That was my name—handsome Raoul!”
“Now, my dear sir,” said the doctor, cheerfully, “wipe your eyes one last time, blow your nose, put your handkerchief into your pocket, and hear me dry-eyed.”
George obeyed mechanically. “But I give you fair warning,” he said, “you are wasting your time.”
“I tell you—” began the other.
“I know exactly what you are going to tell me!” cried George.