recovering consciousness, that he had referred, even indirectly, to all
that had happened. She understood him well--ah, terribly well! It was
the tragedy of the man stopped in his course because of one mistake,
though he had done ten thousand wise things. The power taken from his
hands, the interrupted life, the dark future, the beginning again, if
ever his sight came back: it was sickening, heartbreaking.

She saw it all in his face, but as if some inward voice had spoken to
him, his face cleared, the swift-moving hands clasped in front of him,
and he said quietly: "But because it's life, there it is. You have to
take it as it comes."

He stopped a moment, and in the pause she reached out her hand with a
sudden passionate gesture, to touch his shoulder, but she restrained
herself in time.

He seemed to feel what she was doing, and turned his face towards her,
a slight flush coming to his cheeks. He smiled, and then he said: "How
wonderful you are! You look--"

He checked himself, then added with a quizzical smile:

"You are looking very well to-day, Miss Fleda Druse, very well indeed.
I like that dark-red dress you're wearing."

An almost frightened look came into her eyes. It was as though he could
see, for she was wearing a dark-red dress--"wine-coloured," her father
called it, "maroon," Madame Bulteel called it. Could he then see, after
all?