accomplish the impossible. He could not make a journey. The excitement, the effort required, would inevitably bring on the end.
Andrew—[Appalled by a sudden thought.] Good heavens, you haven’t told him this, have you, Doctor?
Fawcett—No. I lied to him. I said a change of climate to the mountains, the desert would bring about a cure. [Perplexedly.] He laughed at that. He seemed to find it amusing for some reason or other. I am sure he knew I was lying. A clear foresight seems to come to people as near death as he is. [He sighs.] One feels foolish lying to them; and yet one feels one ought to do it, I don’t know why. [He looks at his watch again nervously.] I must take my leave of you. It is really imperative that I take no risk of missing——— [He gets up.]
Andrew—[Getting to his feet—insistently.] But there must still be a chance for him, isn’t there, Doctor?
Fawcett—[As if he were reassuring a child.] There is always that last chance—the miracle. We doctors see it happen too often to disbelieve in it. [He puts on his hat and coat—bowing to Ruth.] Goodby, Mrs. Mayo.
Ruth—[Without raising her eyes—dully.] Goodby.
Andrew—[Mechanically.] I’ll walk to the car with you. Doctor. [They go out the door. Ruth sits motionlessly. The motor is heard starting and the noise gradually recedes into the distance. Andrew re-
