I see no reason to withhold the facts from you. [He turns to Andrew.] I am afraid my diagnosis of your brother’s condition forces me to the same conclusion as Mrs. Mayo’s.
Andrew—[Groaning.] But Doctor, surely———
Fawcett—[Calmly.] I am concerned only with facts, my dear sir, and this is one of them. Your brother has not long to live—perhaps a few days, perhaps only a few hours. I would not dare to venture a prediction on that score. It is a marvel that he is alive at this moment. My examination revealed that both of his lungs are terribly affected. A hemorrhage, resulting from any exertion or merely through the unaided progress of the disease itself, will undoubtedly prove fatal.
Andrew—[Brokenly.] Good God! [Ruth keeps her eyes fixed on her lap in a trance-like stare.]
Fawcett—I am sorry I have to tell you this, sorry my trip should prove to be of such little avail. If there was anything that could be done———
Andrew—There isn’t anything?
Fawcett—[Shaking his head.] I am afraid not. It is too late. Six months ago there might have———
Andrew—[In anguish.] But if we were to take him to the mountains—or to Arizona—or———
Fawcett—That might have prolonged his life six months ago. [Andrew groans.] But now [He shrugs his shoulders significantly.] I would only be raising a hope in you foredoomed to disappointment if I encouraged any belief that a change of air could
