Eleanor is a girl with a thousand virtues, each of which she expects to
find in counterpart in the man to whom she is affianced. Until a week or
two ago I actually thought myself in love with Eleanor. There seemed
a whimsical attraction in the idea of marrying a girl with a thousand
virtues. Before me lay the pleasant prospect of reducing them--say, ten
at a time--until I reached the limit at which life was possible,
and then one by one until life became entertaining. I admired her
exceedingly--a strapping, healthy English girl who looked you straight
in the eyes and gripped you fearlessly by the hand.

My friends "lucky-dog'd" me until I began to smirk to myself at my own
good fortune. She visited the constituency and comported herself as if
she had been a Member's wife since infancy, thereby causing my heart to
swell with noble pride. This unparalleled young person compelled me to
take my engagement almost seriously. If I shot forth a jest, it struck
against a virtue and fell blunted to the earth. Indeed, even now I am
sorry I can't marry Eleanor. But marriage is out of the question.

I have been told by the highest medical authorities that I may manage to
wander in the flesh about this planet for another six months. After that
I shall have to do what wandering I yearn for through the medium of my
ghost. There is a certain humourousness in the prospect. Save for an
occasional pain somewhere inside me, I am in the most robust health.

But this same little pain has been diagnosed by the Faculty as the
symptom of an obscure disease. An operation, they tell me, would kill
me on the spot. What it is called I cannot for the life of me remember.
They gave it a kind of lingering name, which I wrote down on my
shirt-cuff.