I went into Bill's room.
For a minute I did nothing—only touched the things on his bureau—his brush, his comb—
A little snap-shot of me stood there. Of me, in a wheel-chair—I had forgotten that—
I opened a leather case which stood on the bureau, it had his initials on it, and a small key lay beside it. Opened it and saw my letters to Richard Warren. They were tossed together, as if he had been reading them. He had told me that he never kept letters.
Somehow, I found the first-aid things and the little emergency case. They were on the table by his bed. And then, taking them into the living-room, I called out to Sarah to find some linen and tear it into sheets—we had very little gauze in the house.
My hands on the first-aid kit, I sat down to think. It was too bad Wright was not here. He would not lose his head. But Mercedes would. I was glad she was in Havana. Suddenly I laughed to think of them, dancing at the Mendez ball—
Sarah came in, her hands full of an old sheet.
"Any news?" I asked, steadily.
"It's going fast," she said dully. "You can see it—"
I went to the window. The whole sky was crimson. I saw the smoke wreathing up through the flame, fancied that I heard shouts—strained my eyes for the sight of a tall, lean figure. He would come soon, I knew, and tell me that it had been a nightmare, that he was safe, that he had been in no danger—