the previous afternoon, had not been unprepared for such an announcement.
As a matter of fact, they had been anticipating the end itself for
months--long, weary months, one may venture to say. Yet Lancaster, who
had been unfortunate in getting the easy-chair which compelled its
occupant to face the strong, clear light, suffered an emotion that
constricted his throat and brought tears to his eyes. But Lancaster had
ever been half-hearted, whether for good or evil. He looked less
unhealthy than on that spring morning, eighteen months ago, but the
furtiveness had increased so much that a stranger would have pitied him
as a man with nerves. To his host's calmly delivered intimation he had no
response ready.

Bullard, on the other hand, was at no loss for words, though he allowed a
few seconds--a decent interval, as they say--to elapse ere he uttered
them. He was not the sort of fool who tosses a light protest in the face
of a grave statement. If his dark face showed no more feeling than usual,
his voice was kind, sympathetic, sincere.

"My dear Christopher," he said, "you have hit us hard, for you never were
a man to make idle assertions, and we know you have suffered much these
last few years. Nevertheless, for our own sakes as well as your own, we
must take leave to hope that your medical man is mistaken. For one thing,
your eyes are not those of a man who is done with life."

Christopher Craig smiled faintly. "Unfortunately, Bullard, life is
done--or nearly done--with me."

Said Lancaster, as if forced--"Have you seen a specialist?"

The host's hand made a slightly impatient movement. "Let us not discuss