"God only knows that, my dear lady," I answered.

"Oh, you needn't hide your thoughts," she said. "I know that my days are
very few. Oh, if only, if only my husband could come with me! I am so
afraid to go alone, and I am fond of him, very fond of him."

I soothed her as well as I could.

"You ought to have someone to sleep in your room at night," I said. "You
ought not to be left by yourself."

"Henry is near me--in the next room," she replied. "I would not have a
nurse for the world--I hate and detest nurses."

Soon afterwards she left me. She was very erratic, and before she left
the room she had quite got over her depression. The sun shone out, and
with the gleam of brightness her volatile spirits rose.

"I am going for a drive," she said. "Will you come with me?"

"Not this morning," I replied. "If you ask me to-morrow, I shall be
pleased to accompany you."

"Well, go to Henry," she answered. "Talk to him--find out what ails him,
order tonics for him. Cheer him in every way in your power. You say he
is not ill--not seriously ill--I know better. My impression is that if
my days are numbered, so are his."

She went away, and I sought her husband. As soon as the wheels of her
brougham were heard bowling away over the gravel sweep, we went up