“Yes, I suppose so,” he said huskily. “Of course, my good lady——”
Dempsi did not let him finish. He became suddenly serious as though the gravity of the situation had forced itself upon him.
“Your wife? Have no fear, Superbus,” he said quickly. “She shall never want. I will make it my business to see that she is provided for. And your deed shall be commemorated: I promise you that. I myself have suffered from a thoughtless failure to immortalise my name. I have in my mind a great tablet of black marble, chaste of design. Simple yet grand. Plain, yet in a sense decorative. And an inscription in letters of gold:
“‘To the memory of Julius Superbus,
A Hero, a Gentleman and a Roman.’”
His voice trembled as he spoke. Already he stood before the monument in tears. Julius wiped the perspiration from his pale face.
“Yes, very pretty,” he said, and now his hoarseness was chronic. “As I was saying, my good lady will be pleased. She always had a good opinion of me, though she’s never mentioned it. But at the same time, though I’m very much obliged to you, and nobody could be kinder about it——”
“Can’t you see her standing reading the inscription?” asked Dempsi in a hushed voice. “Can’t you imagine her looking up to the slab—fixed in a respectable church, perhaps under a stained-glass window—with proud, shining eyes, her children by her side——”
“I haven’t got any children,” said Julius loudly.
Dempsi spread out his expressive hands.
“She may marry again,” he said considerately. “She is probably in the prime of life. There may still be happiness for her.”