Solignac lay stretched on his death-bed. He had a mind to go and see him lying so.... This Solignac must have died enormously rich—his collections were world-famous.
He went and put on his hat and cloak; lurched to the door——
At the door he hesitated.
Have a care!
Look to thyself, master Myre! That leopard quietude, the catlike lithe walk, may be the watchful prowl of one that sees more than thou with all thy blatancy and bold staring of fish-like grey eyes—perhaps, too, fears less. Bluster thou canst outbluster—but the silences thou canst not understand.... Wherefore thou shalt not dare that silent woman beyond the goading point of thy vulgarity—if thou be wise. Have a care.
He shut the door—came back—took off his cloak and hat—flung them on a chair.
He would like to have flouted this cold woman in that death-chamber; it had never been done, it would come well in his autobiography; but——
What had this woman heard—guessed—seen—in that first month?
Damnation! He had been so careful—so circumspect. He recalled the warm accents frozen to cold disdain almost before they had left her father’s house. She baffled him—made him uneasy. He had scolded, supplicated, whimpered, blustered.... What chiefly remained in the fearful hollows of his conceit was the passionless voice in its last statement that if he stepped across her door again she would kill him.
On his soul, he had been glad to be rid of her.