And on the breath came words—one word to each exhalation—faint, but quite audible:
"Don't—reproach—yourself.—I—wish—I'd—been—kinder."
Before it was finished her control was quite gone, and her salt tears were dropping, raining, from her face onto his.
Some one led her away. It may have been the duke, or Bellingdown, or one of the doctors. She never knew. Whoever it was took her to a lounge in the drawing-room, where she lay prostrate for a long time. When at length she sat up it was to find Gerald Andrews beside her.
"He is gone?" she asked.
"He is gone," he answered simply.
Late that afternoon a telegram was brought to her. It was from his father, and it read:
At the bottom of every man's soul there is a noble spark that may make a hero of him; but the spark cannot burn brightly all the time. When the critical moment arrives it flares up and illumines great deeds.
Some one said afterward that it was a quotation from Tolstoy, which may be true. But Nina wasn't interested in its authorship.
What gave her ground for thought was that it had been addressed to "Lady Kneedrock."