"I am alone in the world," she said to me many times; "my mission in life is to save Wilfred Tollemache."
"You will not save him by marrying him in his present state," I answered her.
She raised her brows and looked at me in some slight surprise.
"I have no intention of marrying him at present," she said. "Nothing would induce me to unite my lot with that of a drunkard—besides, I promised my father. I will marry Wilfred when he has abstained from drink for a year—not before."
"If he abstains for a year he will be cured," I replied.
There came an evening when Tollemache was sufficiently convalescent to come downstairs. I had not yet said anything to him about Miss Sinclair, but as I knew she was impatient to see him, I wondered if it might be safe for me to break the news of her arrival on the scene to him that evening. He sat in my consulting-room huddled up by the fire. The evening was a warm one in April, but he looked chilly and depressed.
I drew a chair near him and sat down.
He looked at me with languid eyes out of a cadaverous face.
"I can't make out why you are so good to me," he said. "I am not worth the thought of a man like you."
I did not reply for a moment. Then I said, tersely:—