She turned her head a little, her lips moving. It was evident that she had not really heard. But he knew that she had never borne him malice.
And then suddenly it was over. He had broken through. Beyond were understanding and peace and strange and difficult tears. He loved her, as beneath the fret and heat of passion Cosgrave and all those others had loved her, for what she sincerely was and for the brave, gay thing she had to give. He loved her more simply still as in rare moments of their lives men love one another, saying: "This is my brother—this is my sister." From his lonely arrogance his spirit flung itself down, grieving, beside her mysterious, incalculable good.
He could hear the jolly bang-bang of the drum and the whoop of a trumpet. He could see her catherine-wheeling round the stage, and the man with the bloated face and tragic, intelligent eyes.
"Life itself, my dear fellow, life itself."
And she was dead.
EPILOGUE
For a moment they stared at one another. He did not at once recognize Connie Edwards, in the puritanical serge frock and with her air of rather conscious sobriety, and he himself stood in the shadow. He thought:
"She's wondering if I'm a tramp." He felt like one, broken and shabby.
"Dr. Wilmot?" he muttered.
She leant closer.