"You're a long way from dying," said he, "or you wouldn't say it."
But Aaron only looked up at him with queer, far-off, haggard eyes, something like a criminal who is just being executed.
"Lie down!" said Lilly, pushing him gently into the bed. "You won't improve yourself sitting there, anyhow."
Aaron lay down, turned away, and was quite still. Lilly quietly left the room on his errand.
The doctor did not come until ten o'clock: and worn out with work when he did come.
"Isn't there a lift in this establishment?" he said, as he groped his way up the stone stairs. Lilly had heard him, and run down to meet him.
The doctor poked the thermometer under Aaron's tongue and felt the pulse. Then he asked a few questions: listened to the heart and breathing.
"Yes, it's the flu," he said curtly. "Nothing to do but to keep warm in bed and not move, and take plenty of milk and liquid nourishment. I'll come round in the morning and give you an injection. Lungs are all right so far."
"How long shall I have to be in bed?" said Aaron.
"Oh—depends. A week at least."
Aaron watched him sullenly—and hated him. Lilly laughed to himself. The sick man was like a dog that is ill but which growls from a deep corner, and will bite if you put your hand in. He was in a state of black depression.
Lilly settled him down for the night, and himself went to bed. Aaron squirmed with heavy, pained limbs, the night through, and slept and had bad dreams. Lilly got up to give him drinks. The din in the market was terrific before dawn, and Aaron suffered bitterly.
In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections against pneumonia.
"You wouldn't like me to wire to your wife?" said Lilly.
"No," said Aaron abruptly. "You can send me to the hospital. I'm nothing but a piece of carrion."
"Carrion!" said Lilly. "Why?"
