As he grew worse, Driscoll grew more exacting, and more variable in temper. He had less and less compassion on his friends, and demanded Herculean labors of wakefulness—watching, reading aloud, etc. No invalid had ever a more comfortable confidence in the boundless strength and amiability of those who are well. Gano tried with scant success to save Mary from bearing the brunt of the sick man's exactions.
He hurried up-stairs to relieve the watch a little earlier than usual one evening.
"Once more I appeal to you," he heard Driscoll saying, with raised voice, before the door was opened. The turning of the knob had either drowned or prevented the reply. Driscoll lay breathing heavily, and Mary, with impassive face, was drawing on her gloves. She looked up and nodded to Gano.
"Good-bye," she said, after a moment. But on the threshold she stopped. "Dick," she said, without turning to face Driscoll, "I think I won't come to-morrow."
"Yes, you will," he shouted. She turned and looked at him.
"Good-bye," was all she said.
"Damned selfish women are!" Driscoll growled as the sound of her steps died.
"I shouldn't call her exactly a case in point," observed his friend.
"Well, she is. She sees how hopeless this is, and how damnably I'm suffering, and she won't help me to get out of this cursed hole. You won't either," he added, defiantly, and yet with a gleam of hope, almost lunatic in its cunning and its greed.
"I won't what?" said Gano.