“No, and you ain’t likely to,” said old Mr. Mottisfont. “There, you’d best be gone. I’ve talked enough.” “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 didn’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—gettin’ worse——” “Oh, I think we can relieve the pain, sir,” said David cheerfully. “Much obliged, David. Some beastly drug that’ll turn me into an idiot. No, thank ye, I’ll keep my wits if it’s all the same to you. Well, well, it’s all in the day’s work, and I’m not complaining, but Edward’ll get mortal tired of waiting for my shoes if I last three years. I doubt his patience holding out. He’ll be bound to hasten matters on. Think of the bad example I shall be for the baby—when it comes. Lord, David, what d’ ye want to look like that for? I suppose they’ll have babies like other folk, and I’ll be a bad example for ’em. Edward’ll think of that. When he’s thought of it enough, and I’ve got on his nerves a bit more than usual, he’ll put strychnine or arsenic into my soup. Oh, Edward’ll poison me yet. You’ll see.” “Poor old Edward, it’s not much in his line,” said David with half a laugh. “Eh? What about Pellico’s dog then?” “Pellico’s dog, sir?”