it in the balance and found it wanting.

Nevertheless something vaguely disturbing woke in her that night when she
watched with Mrs. Clarke at Mac's bedside. Despite the havoc five years
had wrought in him, there was the old appealing charm in his voice and
manner, the old audacity in his whispered words when she bent over him,
the old eager want in his eyes as they followed her about the room.

Toward morning he dropped into a restless sleep, and Mrs. Clarke, who
had been watching his every breath, tiptoed over to the table and sat
down by Nance.

"My son tells me you are the Miss Molloy who used to be in the office,"
she whispered. "He is so happy to find some one here he knows. He loathes
trained nurses as a rule. They make him nervous. But he has been
wonderfully good about letting you do things for him. It's a tremendous
relief to me."

Nance made a mistake on the chart that was going to call for an
explanation later.

"He's been losing ground ever since last winter," the doting mother went
on. "He was really quite well at Divonne-les-Bains, but he lost all he
gained when we reached Paris. You see he doesn't know how to take care of
himself; that's the trouble."

Mac groaned and she hurried to him.

"He wants a cigarette, Miss Molloy. I don't believe it would hurt
him," she said.