And it
must be performed without delay."
Babbacombe said something inarticulate that resolved itself with an
effort into:
"Have you told her?"
"Yes, I have." The doctor's voice was stern. "And she absolutely refuses
to consent to it. I have given her till to-morrow morning to make up her
mind. After that--" He paused a moment, and looked Babbacombe straight
in the face. "After that," he said, with emphasis, "it will be too
late."
When Babbacombe entered Cynthia's presence a few minutes later, he
walked as a man dazed. He found her lying among pillows, with the
sunlight streaming over her, transforming her brown hair into a mass of
sparkling gold. The old quick, gracious smile welcomed him as he bent
over her. There were deep shadows about her eyes, but they were
wonderfully bright. The hand she gave him was as cold as ice, despite
the flush upon her cheeks.
"You have been told?" she questioned. "Yes, I see you have. Now, don't
preach to me, Jack--dear Jack. It's too shocking to talk about. Can you
believe it? I can't. I've always been so clever with my hands. Have you
a pencil? I want you to take down a wire for me."
In her bright, imperious way, she dominated him. It was well-nigh
impossible to realise that she was dangerously ill.
He sat down beside her with pencil and paper.
"Address it to Mr. West," said Cynthia, her eyes following his fingers.
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