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She bent fondly over the bed, and her Paris frock, and the black scarf which she had not removed, touched its ruinous burden. Her right hand directed the sponge with ineffable tenderness, and then the long thin fingers tightened to a frenzied clutch to squeeze it over the basin. The whole of her being was absorbed in a deep passion of pity and an intolerable hunger for the doctor.

Through the wall came once more the faint sound of the Hungarian Rhapsody, astonishingly rapid and brilliant. She set her teeth to endure its unconscious message of the vast indifference of life to death.

The organism stirred, and May watched the deathly face for a sign. The eyes opened and stared at her in agonized bewilderment. The lips tried to speak, and failed.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said softly. ‘You’re in your own bed. The doctor will be here directly. Drink this.’

She gave him some brandy-and-water, and they looked at each other. He was no longer Edward Norris, the finely regulated intelligence, the masterful volition, the conqueror of the world and of a woman; but merely the embodiment of a frightened, despairing, flickering, hysterical will-to-live, which glanced in terror at the corners of the room as though it saw fate there. And beneath her intense solicitude was the instinctive feeling, which hurt her, but which she could not dismiss, of her measureless, dominating superiority. With what glad relief would she have changed places with him!

‘I’m dying, May,’ he murmured at length, with a sigh. ‘Why doesn’t the doctor come?’

‘He is coming,’ she replied soothingly. ‘You’ll be better soon.’

But his effort in speaking obliged her to use the sponge again, and he saw it, and drew another sigh, more mortal than the first.

‘Oh! I’m dying,’ he repeated.

‘Not you, Ted!’ And her smile cost her an awful pang.

‘I am. I know it.’ This time he spoke with sad resignation. ‘You must face it. And–listen.’

‘What, dear?’

A physical sensation of sickness came over her. She could not disguise from herself the fact that he was dying. The warped and pallid face, the panic-struck eyes, the sweat, the wound in the neck, the damp hands nervously pulling the hem of the sheet–these indications were not to be gainsaid. The truth was too horrible to grasp; she wanted to put it away from her. ‘This calamity cannot happen to me!’ she thought urgently, and all the while she knew that it was happening to her.

He collected the feeble remnant of his powers by an immense effort, and began to speak, slowly and fragmentarily, and with such weakness that she could only catch his words by putting her ear to his mouth. The restless hands dropped the sheet and took the end of the black scarf.

‘You’ll be comfortable–for money,’ he said. ‘Will made…. It’s not that. It’s … I must tell you. It’s—-‘

‘Yes?’ she encouraged him. ‘Tell me. I can hear.’

‘It’s about your father. I didn’t treat him quite right … once…. Week after I first met you, May…. No, not quite right. He was holding Hull and Barnsley shares … you know, railway … great gambling stock, then, Hull and Barn–Barnsley. Holding them on cover; for the rise…. They dropped too much–dropped to 23…. He couldn’t hold any longer … wired to me to sell and cut the loss. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ she said, trembling. ‘I quite understand.’

‘Well … I wired back, “Sold at 23.” … But some mistake. Shares not sold. Clerk’s mistake…. Clerk didn’t sell…. Next day rise began…. I didn’t wire him shares not sold. Somehow, I couldn’t…. Put it off…. Rise went on…. I took over shares myself … you see–myself…. Made nearly five thousand clear…. I wanted money then…. I think I would have told him, perhaps, later … made it right … but he died … sudden … I wasn’t going to let his creditors have that five thou…. No, he’d meant to sell … and, look here, May, if those shares had dropped lower … ‘stead of rising … I should have had to stand the racket … with your father, for my clerk’s mistake…. See?… He’d meant to sell…. Hard lines on him, but he’d meant to sell…. He’d meant—-‘