"Perhaps it is that."
"Perhaps," said Semingham.
In the course of the next three days they had many conversations; the talks did the Baron no good nor, as his doctor significantly said, any harm; and when he could not talk, Semingham sat by him and told stories. He spoke too, frequently, of Willie Ruston, and of the Company—that interested the Baron. And at last, on the third day, they began to speak of Maggie Dennison; but neither of them connected the two names in talk. Indeed Semingham, according to his custom, had rushed at the possibility of ignoring such connection. Ruston's disappearance had shown him a way; and he embraced the happy chance. He was always ready to think that any "fuss" was a mistake; and, as he told the Baron, Mrs. Dennison had been in great spirits lately, cheered up, it seemed, by the prospect of her husband's immediate arrival. The Baron smiled to hear him; then he asked,
"Do you think she would come to see me?"
Semingham promised to ask her; and, although the Baron was fit to see nobody the next day—for he had moved swiftly towards his journey's end in those twenty-four hours—yet Mrs. Dennison came and was admitted; and, at sight of the Baron, who lay yellow and gasping, forgot both her acting and, for an instant, the reality which it hid.
"Oh!" she cried before she could stop herself, "how ill you look! Let me make you comfortable!"
The Baron did not deny her. He had something to say to her.
"When does your husband come?" he asked.
"To-morrow," said she briefly.
She did all she could for his comfort, and then sat down by his bedside. He had an interval of some freedom from oppression and his mind was clear and concentrated.