could see painful and bitter thoughts flit over his thin face, as he looked round the room.
"You have no end of flowers!" he murmured.
"These are all flowers of farewell. These at least you need not envy me."
His face darkened.
"You know how ill I am. That is what makes me so hateful. Not that I regret life, but that I have nothing in life to regret losing."
I did not answer.
"To know for sure that death is at hand gives you quite another outlook upon life. An extraordinary attachment to things positive springs up, together with an intense hate for abstractions. Each renunciation, each victory over self, is to you like a fresh nail in your coflin."
"But you surely love your wife?" I asked him, after a pause.
"I do."
"And your son, too?"
He gave a nod.
"Well, then …" I tried to draw some comforting inference, but unsuccessfully.
