“Mr Graham,” said the marquis, looking ghastly, “you must have patience with a dying man. I was very rude to you, but I was in horrible pain.”
“Don’t mention it, my lord. It would be a poor friendship that gave way for a rough word.”
“How can you call yourself my friend?”
“I should be your friend, my lord, if it were only for your wife’s sake. She died loving you. I want to send you to her, my lord. You will allow that, as a gentleman, you at least owe her an apology.”
“By Jove, you are right, sir!—Then you really and positively believe in the place they call heaven?”
“My lord, I believe that those who open their hearts to the truth, shall see the light on their friends’ faces again, and be able to set right what was wrong between them.”
“It’s a week too late to talk of setting right!”
“Go and tell her you are sorry, my lord,—that will be enough to her.”
“Ah! but there’s more than her concerned.”
“You are right, my lord. There is another—one who cannot be satisfied that the fairest works of his hands, or rather the loveliest children of his heart, should be treated as you have treated women.”