"Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra, Nec pulcher Ganges atque auro turbibus Hermus Laudibus Italiae certent, non Bactra, neque Indi, Totaque turiferis Panchaia pinguis arenis."
Julian's eyes glistened as the melody rolled on, and when it ceased, both were quiet for a time.
"Waymark," Julian said presently, a gentle tremor in his voice, "why do we never speak of her?"
"Can we speak of her?" Waymark returned, knowing well who was meant.
"A short time ago I could not; now I feel the need. It will give me no pain, but great happiness."
"That is all gone by," he continued, with a solemn smile. "To me she is no longer anything but a remembrance, an ideal I once knew. The noblest and sweetest woman I have known, or shall know, on earth."
They talked of her with subdued voices, reverently and tenderly. Waymark described what he knew or divined of the life she was now leading, her beneficent activity, her perfect adaptation to the new place she filled.
"In a little while," Julian said, when they had fallen into thought again, "you will have your second letter. And then?"
There was no answer. Julian waited a moment, then rose and, clasping his friend's hand, bade him good night.
Waymark awoke once or twice before morning, but there was no coughing in the next room. He felt glad, and wondered whether there was indeed any improvement in the invalid's health. But at the usual breakfast-time Julian did not appear. Waymark knocked at his door, with no result. He turned the handle and entered.