"Wait!" she whispered, as Gano seemed to be turning away.
She put her finger on the sick man's pulse, and, still kneeling there, counted the beats with absorbed, unselfconscious face. Gano was struck again with the "mother" quality in the woman. It gave all she did a definite modesty. She was getting up.
"Can you spare the light?" she whispered. "I forgot to bring—"
"Of course," interrupted Gano.
He set the lamp down, and turned to the door.
"Wait a moment."
She hung the Figaro over the back of the chair between the sleeper and the light, then, quietly and without haste, she took her brown cape and hat off the peg and put them on. She leaned a moment over the sleeper, and then, "Come!" she signed rather then said, and they went softly out. At the foot of the stairs she stopped.
"Can you get a candle and a piece of paper?"
"Yes; this is my room," said Gano, opening his door.