I then noticed that his hair was much thinner, and sprinkled rather plentifully with grey, and that the perspiration stood in beads on his no longer unwrinkled brow.

His pallid, sharp-featured face, and a strange brilliancy in his eyes, told me that either his physical or his mental being hid an underground fire, perhaps no longer quenchable.

Thinking from his repeated fits of coughing, that his bending over towards me arose quite as much from the fact that he was tired and was trying to rest against the edge of the table, as from his interest in the conversation, I determined to enter at once upon the question of the state of his health, and thus put myself in possession of yet another important outwork of his confidence.
I rose suddenly, determined and serious, and said that, as an experienced doctor, I unfortunately saw that he was ill in no such slight degree as he perhaps thought, and that, as he was evidently weak and languid--as the drops of perspiration on his forehead showed--he must, at any rate, at once seat himself on the comfortable sofa I had hitherto occupied.
He acknowledged that going twice downstairs had been rather too much for him--the first time he had only gone down to put an end to the uncomfortable draught through the house--and willingly took his place on the sofa at my desire.
It was his chest, he said.

By the help of the stethoscope, I found that this was only too true.

His chest, indeed, was in such a condition that it was only a question of gaining time, not of saving life; for one lung was entirely gone, and the other seriously affected.
During the remainder of the evening, both he and I felt ourselves re-established on the old footing, my authority as doctor now giving me a slight superiority.
At nine o'clock, I declared that he must go to bed, and I told him that the next morning I intended to come again, and prescribe what was needful.