“By the way,” he continued, “I saw your new nurse protégée to-day. Langdon, I believe her name is. She is a lovely girl; I think I never saw a brighter, sweeter face in my life.”
Mrs. Goodno had gone to the window and stood looking out. “Doctor,” she said, “I’ve bad news. Dr. Faulkner has just seen Mr. Daunt, and—he is dying.”
Something in her voice caught him. He rose and came beside her, and saw that her eyes were full of tears. He drew her head to his shoulder and smoothed her hair gently. He could feel her hands quiver against his arm. His thoughts fled far away—somewhere—where the one for whose sorrow she cried must be uncomforted. “Poor girl! Poor girl!” he said.
XIX.
As they entered the room, Lois turned the key in its lock and bent a long, penetrating gaze on Margaret.
She lay huddled against the welter of bedclothes, silent, inert, pearl-pale spots on her cheeks like gray-white smothers of foam over fretting rocks. Her eyes were closed and her breath came chokingly, like a child’s after a draught of strong medicine. Suddenly, as Lois stood pondering, she kneeled upright on the bed, holding her arms out before her.
“Oh, God!” she cried, “don’t let him die! Please don’t! He can’t—he can’t die! Why, he’s Richard—Richard Daunt. It’s only an accident. He can’t die that way. God—God!”