She was listening now. He knew that, for the half-moon shoulders had ceased to shudder. The smell of Jacqueminot drew him to her. Bending over her, he stole one hand from beneath the buried face. “Do I need to go?”
And still there was no answer. It was then that the old grey parrot spoke. He had pretended to be sleeping. “What shall we talk about?” he whispered hoarsely; and, when an interval had elapsed, “Robbie?”
The little lady, who had needed to be loved, lifted up her tear-stained face and the wounded officer who had wanted rest, bent lower.
“I don't need to go,” he whispered. “I came to bring you Robbie's present. He told me what he wanted.”