A plague on the woman for catching me in the trap! Before Dale came in I was on the point of putting an airy construction on my indiscreet speech. I had no desire to discuss my longevity with any one. I want to keep my miserable secret to myself. It was exasperating to have to entrust it even to Dale. And yet, if I repudiated her implied explanation of our apparent embrace it would have put her hopelessly in the wrong. I had to support her.
“It's what the doctors say,” I replied, “but whether it's true or not is another matter.”
Again he looked queerly from me to Lola and from Lola back to me. His first impression of our attitude had been a shock from which he found it difficult to recover. I smiled, and, although perfectly innocent, felt a villain.
“Madame Brandt is good enough to be soft-hearted and to take a tragic view of a most commonplace contingency.”
“But it isn't commonplace. By God, it's horrible!” cried the boy, the arrested love for me suddenly gushing into his heart. “I had no idea of it. In Heaven's name, Simon, why didn't you tell me? My dear old Simon.”
Tears rushed into his eyes and he gripped my hand until I winced. I put my other hand on his shoulder and laughed with a contorted visage.
“My good Dale, the moribund are fragile.”
“Oh, Lord, man, how can you make a jest of it?”
“Would you have me drive about in a hearse, instead of a cab, by way of preparation?”
“But what have the doctors told you?” asked Lola.