"She is dead," he said slowly. "My wife is dead."
Brigit caught at a chair as she saw his face, for it was the face of an old man, blanched and wrinkled and hollow-eyed.
"My wife is dead," he repeated.
Then he turned to the table, and seeing her shabby old red-lined work-basket, took it up and held it to his breast.
As he stood, his back to her, as to one who did not belong there, who was an intruder, he began to cry, great slow tears dropping into the basket, wetting the red lining, and, no doubt, rusting the very needle she had used yesterday.
Brigit saw his face in the glass.
"Oh, Victor," she faltered, her hands clasped.
He turned and pointed to the bed.
"You will excuse me," he said, with an evident effort to be polite, "but I cannot talk. My wife is dead."
And the girl turned and crept from the room. She understood. And she left him as he wished, alone with his wife, who was dead.