"Martigny is his name," he said, "and he's in very bad shape. He must
have been desperately anxious to get back to France. Why, he might
have dropped over dead there on the gang-plank."
"It's a disease of the heart?"
"Yes--far advanced. He can't get well, of course, but he may live on
indefinitely, if he's careful."
"He's still confined to his bed?"
"Oh, yes--he won't leave it during the voyage, if he takes my advice.
He's got to give his heart just as little work as possible, or it'll
throw up the job altogether. He has mighty little margin to go on."
I turned the talk to other things, and in a few moments he went on
along his rounds. But I was not long alone, for I saw Miss Kemball
coming toward me, looking a very Diana, wind-blown and rosy-cheeked.
"So _mal-de-mer_ has laid its hand on you, too, Mr. Lester!" she
cried.
"Only a finger," I said. "But a finger is enough. Won't you take pity
on a poor landsman and talk to him?"
"But that's reversing our positions!" she protested, sitting down,
nevertheless, to my great satisfaction. "It was you who were to be the
entertainer! Is our Mephisto abroad yet?" she asked, in a lower tone.
"I, too, am feeling his fascination--I long for another glimpse of
him."
"Mephisto is still wrestling with his heart, which, it seems, is
scarcely able to furnish the blood necessary to keep him going.
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