physically, from day to day. Maurice was like an ominous thunder-cloud.
She had to keep waking up to remember him.

When a little note came from Bertie, asking if he were to put up a
tombstone to their dead friendship, and speaking of the real pain he felt
on account of her husband's loss of sight, she felt a pang, a fluttering
agitation of re-awakening. And she read the letter to Maurice.

'Ask him to come down,' he said.

'Ask Bertie to come here!' she re-echoed.

'Yes--if he wants to.'

Isabel paused for a few moments.

'I know he wants to--he'd only be too glad,' she replied. 'But what about
you, Maurice? How would you like it?'

'I should like it.'

'Well--in that case--But I thought you didn't care for him--'

'Oh, I don't know. I might think differently of him now,' the blind man
replied. It was rather abstruse to Isabel.

'Well, dear,' she said, 'if you're quite sure--'

'I'm sure enough. Let him come,' said Maurice.