She sighed.
"I wish I could say the same!" she said--"I really hate yachting, but
father likes it, so I must sacrifice myself." Here she sighed again. I
saw she was really convinced that she was immolating herself on the
altar of filial obedience. "You know he is very ill,"--she went
on--"and that he cannot live long?"
"He told me something about it,"--I answered--"and I said then, as I
say now, that the doctors may be wrong."
"Oh no, they cannot be wrong in his case," she declared, shaking her
head dismally--"They know the symptoms, and they can only avert the end
for a time. I'm very thankful Dr. Brayle was able to come with us on
this trip."
"I suppose he is paid a good deal for his services?" I said.
"Eight hundred guineas"--she answered--"But, you see, he has to leave
his patients in London, and find another man to attend to them during
his absence. He is so very clever and so much sought after--I don't
know what I should do without him, I'm sure!"
"Has he any special treatment for you?" I asked.
"Oh yes,--he gives me electricity. He has a wonderful battery--he has
got it fitted up here in the next cabin--and while I hold two handles
he turns it on and it runs all over me. I feel always better for the
moment--but the effect soon passes."