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The man on the bed makes a painful effort, gathering his nearly-spent forces for something he wants to say: "Doctor!" "Let me wipe your forehead. Yes?" "I ... insulted you frightfully the other day." "You need not recall that. I have forgotten it." "I ... beg your pardon! Will you ... shake hands?... My left, if you don't mind. The other one's ... no good."
It gains rather than loses by reproduction; since the painting now shows a strange disagreeable colour most unlike the carnations of Holbein. Between the sitter and the green-curtained background stands perhaps the ghastliest of all Holbein's skeletons, one hand on his scythe, the other grimly pointing at the nearly-spent sands of the hour-glass.
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