“Practice,” she answered smilingly.
“I’m not better, and I don’t want to be. I’ve run out my time. Who cares how soon I’m dead? I don’t, for one.” The pathos in the naturalness of the voice brought something of a lump into the listener’s throat.
“Who cares?” she echoed after a moment of suspicious pause. “What about Hyland for instance?”
“Hyland? Ah! Dear boy, he always believed in me.”
“So does Edala,” said the other boldly.
There was no answer. What was she to say? thought Evelyn.
“She does now,” she went on. The wounded man opened his eyes wide.
“Does now? Rather late in the day. But,” as if it had suddenly dawned upon him, “what do you—I’ve had a whack on the head you know, and it’s left me rather stupid—what do you—know about things?”
“Nothing. Because there’s nothing to know,” came the cheerful confident rejoinder. “Listen Inqoto—I believe it’s useless, and worse, any beating about the bush between you and me. Shall I speak plainly?”
Thornhill looked at her long and earnestly. As he did so a whole world of reassurance came into his eyes. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Talk as plainly as you like.”