It did not seem quite modest in her to continue
persisting.
George volunteered to write a letter to her father; and he hoped
this would settle the matter without further discussion. But in
this he was disappointed. There had to be a long correspondence
with long arguments and protestations from Henriette's father and
from his own mother. It seemed such a singular whim. Everybody
persisted in diagnosing his symptoms, in questioning him about
what the doctor had said, who the doctor was, how he had come to
consult him--all of which, of course, was very embarrassing to
George, who could not see why they had to make such a fuss. He
took to cultivating a consumptive look, as well as he could
imagine it; he took to coughing as he went about the house--and
it was all he could do to keep from laughing, as he saw the look
of dismay on his poor mother's face. After all, however, he told
himself that he was not deceiving her, for the disease he had was
quite as serious as tuberculosis.
It was very painful and very trying. But there was nothing that
could be done about it; the marriage had been put off for six
months, and in the meantime he and Henriette had to control their
impatience and make the best of their situation. Six months was
a long time; but what if it had been three or four years, as the
other doctor had demanded? That would have been a veritable
sentence of death.
George, as we have seen, was conscientious, and regular and
careful in his habits.
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