she said with a light hard humour. “Just a little case of carcinoma of the prostate. He’s going to die anyway, so you’ve got nothing to worry about at all.” “Who?” he said stupidly again. “Who is it?” “Oh, just a man,” she said gaily. “An old, old man name Mr. Gant.— You’ve been his physician for twenty years, but maybe you’ve forgotten him. You know—they come and go; some live and others die—it’s all right,—this one’s going to die. They’ll bury him— it’ll all come out right one way or the other—so you’ve nothing to worry about at all. . . . Even if you kill him,” she said cheerfully. “He’s just an old, old man with cancer, and bound to die anyway, so promise me you won’t worry about it too much, will you?” She looked at him a moment longer; then, putting her hand under his fat chin, she jerked his head up sharply. He stared at her stupidly with his yellowed drunken eyes, and in them she saw the mute anguish of a tortured animal, and suddenly her heart was twisted with pity for him.“Look here,”
