Why?"
"Because," said Carron, "he impresses me as being rather young and
flighty, and some day your uncle is going to die suddenly. He may
last five years; he may snuff out to-morrow. It's his heart." His
lips twisted pityingly. "He prefers to call it by some other name,"
he added, "and he would never send for me again if he knew I had
told you, but you ought to know. He's a game old cock, isn't he?"
"Oh, very!" agreed Adrian. "Yes, game! Very, indeed!"
He walked slowly down the sunlit courtway on which the back door of
the club opened, swinging his stick and meditating. Spring was
approaching its zenith. In the warm May afternoon pigeons tumbled
about near-by church spires which cut brown inlays into the soft
blue sky. There was a feeling of open windows; a sense of unseen
tulips and hyacinths; of people playing pianos.... Too bad, an old
man dying that way, his hand furtively seeking his heart, when all
this spring was about! Terror in possession of him, too! People like
that hated to die; they couldn't see anything ahead. Well, Adrian
reflected, the real tragedy of it hadn't been his fault. He had
always been ready at the slightest signal to forget almost
everything--yes, almost everything. Even that time when, as a
sweating newspaper reporter, he had, one dusk, watched in the park
his uncle and Mrs.
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