At daybreak, when the light from the eastern sky came in blue at the
window blind, and the gasoline lamp grew sickly and pale, the doctor
went to bed. He had thought it all out and outlined his course of
action.

He did not doubt the old doctor's word; his own knowledge gave
corroborative evidence that it was quite true, and he wondered he had
not thought of it. Still, there was something left for him to do. He
would play up and play the game, even if it were a losing fight. His
own house had fallen, but it would be his part now to see that the
minimum amount of pain would come to Pearl over it. She was young,
and had all the world before her--she would forget. He had a curious
shrinking from having her know that he had the disease, for like most
doctors, he loathed the thought of disease, and had often quoted
to his patients in urging them to obey the laws of physiological
righteousness, the words of Elbert Hubbard that "The time would come
when people would feel more disgrace at being found in a hospital than
in a jail, for jails were for those who broke men's laws, but those in
the hospital had broken the laws of God!"

He shuddered now when he thought of it, it all seemed so
unnecessary--so wantonly cruel--so so inexplicable.

Above all, Pearl must not know, for instinctively he felt that if she
knew he was a sick man, she would marry him straight away--she would
be so sweet about it all, and so hopeful and sure he would get well,
and such a wonderfully skilful and tender nurse, that he would surely
get well. For one blissful but weak moment, which while it thrilled
it frightened him still more--he allowed himself to think it would be