“If you do not object,” he remarked with some stiffness, “I should like to sit here with you for a little time. There is certainly a breeze.”
She made no comment but walked on. He paid the man and followed her to the empty seat. Opposite, some illuminated advertisements blazed their unsightly message across the murky sky. Between the two curving rows of yellow lights the river flowed—black, turgid, hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their ears. She listened to it for a moment and then pressed her hands to the side of her head.
“Oh, how I hate it!” she moaned. “The voices, always the voices, calling, threatening, beating you away! Take my hands, Leonard Tavernake,—hold me.”
He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without comprehension.
“You are not well,” he muttered.
Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned. She smiled at him, feebly but derisively.
“You foolish boy!” she cried. “Can't you see that I am dying? Hold my hands tightly and watch—watch! Here is one more thing you can see—that you cannot understand.”
He saw the empty phial slip from her sleeve and fall on to the pavement. With a cry he sprang up and, carrying her in his arms, rushed out into the road.