“Is he conscious?”
“No, nor likely to be. It is not at all probable he will ever open his eyes again. He will most likely sink quietly, without a sound or a sign. I have done all I can for him. Somebody must be with him to watch him, I suppose. It can only be a question of hours now.” A dark cloud hung upon the doctor’s brow. His thoughts were preoccupied. Presently he spoke again—a sort of mutter between his teeth.
“He ought not to be allowed to die here—under this roof. It is monstrous—hateful to think of! Nothing can save him. Yet I suppose it would be murder to move him now.”
Monica looked up quickly.
“Move him! Tom, what are you thinking of?”
“I know it cannot be done,” was the answer, spoken in a stern, dogged tone. “Yet I repeat what I said before: he ought not to be under this roof.”
There was a gentle reproach in the look that Monica bent upon him.
“My husband’s roof and mine will always be a refuge for any whose need is as sore as his. Sometimes I think, Tom, that you are the very hardest man I ever met. His life, I know, is terribly stained; yet it is not for us to judge him.”
It seemed as if Tom were agitated. He gave no outward sign, but his face was pale, his manner curiously harsh and peremptory.