He seemed to have had no time for thinking before he sank into a corner of the railway carriage and noted, with a satisfaction under the circumstances perhaps trivial, that he would have it to himself for the swift hour down to the country. Satisfactions of any sort seemed inappropriate, an appanage that he should have left behind him for ever on stepping from the great specialist's door in Wimpole Street two hours ago. When a man has but a month--at most two months--to live, small hopes and fears should drop from him: he should be stripped, as it were, for the last solitary wrestle in the arena of death. But the drive, from the doctor's to the city and from there to Paddington, had seemed …
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