"Well, sit down and let us talk"--impatiently--"it doesn't
matter--nothing matters since you have come in time."

"In time? What do you mean? In time for what? Pauline, tell
me"--advancing a step--"tell me, in God's Name, what are you doing in
this place?" He glanced significantly round the shabby room with its
threadbare carpet and distempered walls.

"I'm living here--"

"_Living here? You?_"

"Yes. Why not? Soon"--indifferently--"I shall be dying here. It is, at
least, as good a place to die in as any other."

"Dying?" The man's pleasant baritone voice suddenly shook. "Dying?
Oh, no, no! You've been ill--I can see that--but with care and good
nursing--"

"Don't deceive yourself, my friend," she interrupted him remorselessly.
"See, come to the window. Now look at me--and then don't talk any more
twaddle about care and good nursing!"

She had drawn him towards the window, till they were standing together
in the full blaze of the setting sun. Then she turned and faced him--a
gaunt wreck of splendid womanhood, her fingers working nervously, whilst
her too brilliant eyes, burning in their grey, sunken, sockets, searched
his face curiously.