“Thank you, thank you,” he replied. “Leave me here on the bench. I shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old man. May I not”––asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her speak––“may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?”
“My name is Constance Carew.”
He shook as with the palsy. “A good name, a good name!” he repeated. “I remember years ago another of that name––an actress in London. A very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You––you resemble her! But there, don’t let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are busy, I dare say.”
“Yes, I should be at rehearsal,” she replied regretfully.
“At rehearsal!” he repeated. “Yes!––yes!––. But the stage is no place for you!” he added, suddenly. “You should leave it––leave it!”
She looked at him wonderingly. “Is there nothing more I can do for you?”
“Nothing! Nothing! Except––no, nothing!”
“You were about to ask something?” she observed with more sympathy.
“If you would not think me presuming––if you would not deem it an offense––you remind me of one I loved and lost––it is so long ago since I felt her kiss for the last time––I am so near the grave––”