The great weakness of the man, far from veiling the returned personality, served as a background which made it more visible. One could see the will dominating the body, and the half-helpless hands lying on the coverlet presented a striking contrast to the inextinguishable fire of the eye.
Maxine sat down on the chair by the bed. She did not attempt to stroke the hand near her, and she smothered whatever emotion she felt, for she knew the man who had returned.
“Your mother?” said Berselius, who had just sufficient voice to convey interrogation as well as words.
“She has not returned yet; we telegraphed for her, she will be here to-day.”
“Ah!”
The sick man turned his head again, and fixed his eyes on the tree tops.
The hot, pure, morning air came through the open window, bringing with it the chirruping and bickering of sparrows; a day of splendour and great heat was breaking over Paris. Life and the joy of life filled the world, the lovely world which men contrive to make so terrible, so full of misery, so full of tears.
Suddenly Berselius turned his head, and his eyes found Adams with a not unkindly gaze in them.
“Well, doctor,” he said, in a voice stronger than the voice with which he had spoken to Maxine. “This is the end of our hunting, it seems.”
Adams, instead of replying, took the hand that was lying on the coverlet, and Berselius returned the pressure, and then relinquished his hold.