'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--eight--I beg your pardon.'

'Not in the least. I always pretend I've dropped a stitch of my
knitting. I count the days till the last day, then the hours, then the
minutes. Do you?'

'I don't think I've done very much else for the last--' said Conroy,
shivering, for the night was cold, with a chill he recognised.

'Oh, how comforting to find some one who can talk sense! It's not always
the same date, is it?'

'What difference would that make?' He unbuttoned his ulster with a jerk.
'You're a sane woman. Can't you see the wicked--wicked--wicked' (dust
flew from the padded arm-rest as he struck it) unfairness of it? What
have I done?'

She laid her large hand on his shoulder very firmly.

'If you begin to think over that,' she said, 'you'll go to pieces and be
ashamed. Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine. Only be quiet--be quiet,
lad, or you'll set me off!' She made shift to soothe him, though her
chin trembled.

'Well,' said he at last, picking at the arm-rest between them, 'mine's
nothing much, of course.'

'Don't be a fool! That's for doctors--and mothers.'