fancied that it was by way
of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on
the financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and so
much more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire
every day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to
church in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily
inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from
him, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left the
old man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for
money. It was a hideous old age.

In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked with
him to the garden gate.

"How d'you think he is?" said Philip.

Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never
hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised at
Blackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being very
safe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should
be safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been
settled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an
interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much
practice among the better people, because no one really knew anything
about him.

"Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer to
Philip's inquiry.

"Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?"

"Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor with
a cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar of
Blackstable was not an old man either.

"He seems to think his heart's in a bad way."

"I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I think he
should be careful, very careful."

On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he
live? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase was
demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question
instead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the
impatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through their
sympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy,
cast down his eyes.

"I suppose he's in no immediate danger?"

This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patient
couldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a b