“Then good-night, sir,” said Edward Mottisfont, getting up with some show of cheerfulness.

The tone of Mr. Mottisfont's good-night was not nearly such a pleasant one, and as soon as the door had closed upon Edward he flung round towards David Blake with an angry “What 's the good of him? What 's the good of the fellow? He 's not a business man. He 's not a man at all; he 's an entomologiac-a lepidoptofool-a damn lepidoptofool.”

These remarkable epithets followed one another with an extraordinary rapidity.

When the old gentleman paused for breath David inquired, “What 's the trouble, sir?”

“Oh, he 's muddled the new contract with Stevenson. Thinking of butterflies, I expect. Pretty things, butterflies-but there-I don't see that I need distress myself. It ain't me it 's going to touch. It 's Edward's own look-out. My income ain't going to concern me for very much longer.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he made a restless movement with his hand.

“It won't, will it-eh, David? You did n't mean what you said just now? It was just a flam? I ain't going to live, am I?”

David hesitated and the old man broke in with an extraordinary energy.

“Oh, for the Lord's sake, David, I 'm not a girl-out with it! How long d' ye give me?”

David sat down on the bed again. His movements had a surprising gentleness for so large a man. His odd, humorous face was quite serious.

“Really, sir, I don't know,” he said, “I really don't. There 's no more to be done if you won't let me operate. No, we won't go over all that again. I know you 've made up your mind. And no one can possibly say how long it may be. You might have died this week, or you may die in a month, or it may go on for a year-or two-or three. You 've the sort of constitution they don't make nowadays.”

“Three years,” said old Mr. Edward Mottisfont-“three years, David-and this damn pain all along-all the time-getting worse-”