“There’s life in the old dog yet.”
Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something childish in the old man’s satisfaction at having cheated all their expectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he was amused that he had been brought on a fool’s errand. If he could only avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was.
“Are you going to stay a day or two?” He asked Philip, pretending to believe he had come down for a holiday.
“I was thinking of it,” Philip answered cheerfully.
“A breath of sea-air will do you good.”
Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner.
“I’m afraid it is the end this time, Philip,” he said. “It’ll be a great loss to all of us. I’ve known him for five-and-thirty years.”
“He seems well enough now,” said Philip.
“I’m keeping him alive on drugs, but it can’t last. It was dreadful these last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times.”
The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said suddenly to Philip: