By imperceptible degrees Paul had dropped from the head of his class to the bottom, and in June failed to pass his examinations. He was shocked at his failure, for it seemed to place him in the category of dunces, but he quickly relapsed into apathy. He had failed—well, what of it? Repeat the year? No fear! He was still himself, a person more important than any other, and he could be even more completely himself in some town like Halifax or Montreal or Boston or New York.
When the prospect of the vacation was hanging drearily on his hands, Dr. Wilcove drove up to Mrs. Kestrell's door one morning and asked to see him. In the walnut and horsehair parlour, with its paper roses and musty odour, Dr. Wilcove assumed an expression which Paul intuitively understood.
"I know what you've come to tell me," he forestalled. "You're wondering how you can break it to me. It's all right."
In his own ears the words seemed hard and stilted. But he was by no means as unfeeling as Dr. Wilcove momentarily judged, for he had already lived through the impending tragedy and had been preparing himself for this day ever since the doctor had first refused to let him see Aunt Verona. If it was true that she had been unable to move or to speak during all the long dragging weeks since she had burned her manuscripts, Paul felt
