"Typhoid, the doctor thinks."
"Can I see him?"
"It was he who told me to write you. He wants to see you."
"And you?"
"Yes, I wanted you too."
There was a tender reproach in the words, which he was quick to recognise.
"I should not have asked the question. Forgive me."
"No, you need not have asked it."
They went upstairs together. Vickars lay very straight and quiet in the bed, his face pallid, his eyes closed. He roused instantly at their entrance, and at once began to speak in a weak, eager voice.
"So you see I'm caught at last," he said with difficult cheerfulness. "I've never had an illness—ailments, but not illness—and I don't quite know what to make of it. It's an experience that makes one humble."