"M. Linders," he said, "the chance on which your recovery
hangs is so slight, that I do not think it probable, hardly
possible, that you can live over to-morrow. Will you not try
to understand this?"
There was something so wistful and kind and honest in Graham's
expression as he stood there, looking down on his patient,
that M. Linders was touched, perhaps, for he held out his hand
with a little friendly gesture; but even then he could not, or
would not abandon his latest pose of dying _en philosophe_.
"I understand well enough," he answered; "a man does not
arrive at my age, _mon ami_, without having faced death more
than once. You think, perhaps, it has terrors for me?--not at
all; to speak frankly, pain has, but I do not suffer so much
now. That is a bad sign, perhaps. Well, never mind, you have
done your best for me, I know, and I thank you. Except for
that little regret that you know of as regards Legros and--and
Madelon, I am content that life should come to an end--it is
not too delightful in any case, and those that I cared for
most did their best to spoil mine for me.
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