She sat down beside him and held out her hand. And as she did so,
I thought of Boyd Madras and of that long last night of his life, and
of her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to touch his hand
in forgiveness and friendship. And was this man so much better than Boyd
Madras? His wild words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant
anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still a heartless,
unnatural woman, as I had once called her.

Roscoe took her hand and held it briefly. "Dr. Marmion says that you
have helped to nurse me through my illness," he whispered. "I am most
grateful."

I thought she replied with the slightest constraint in her voice. "One
could not let an old acquaintance die without making an effort to save
him."

At that instant I grew scornful, and longed to tell him of her husband.
But then a husband was not an acquaintance. I ventured instead: "I am
sorry, but I must cut short all conversation for the present. When he
is a little better, he will be benefited by your brightest gossip,
Mrs. Falchion."

She rose smiling, but she did not again take his hand, though I thought
he made a motion to that end. But she looked down at him steadily for
a moment. Beneath her look his face flushed, and his eyes grew hot with
light; then they dropped, and the eyelids closed on them. At that she
said, with an incomprehensible airiness: "Good-night. I am going now to
play the music of 'La Grande Duchesse' as a farewell to Gibraltar. They
have a concert on to-night."