"Yes, I see. And I love you, Sigrid, as Gaya does, without caring who or what you are, or what you mean to do with us. But just sometimes I'm afraid—sometimes I think it would have been more merciful to have let us go on our own old, stodgy way."
"You mean—him? He sought me out. I believe he brought me here. There are more things in heaven and earth, Mary, than are dreamed of in your philosophy. And even if that weren't true—he knew as well as I did what I was—what I wanted—-adventure, knowledge of the finest and the best in life and in men—a last splendid hour—he would not have denied it me."
The last words had sunk below the whisper of their brief conversation, and Mary Compton did not hear them. Very skilfully she forced the opiate between the unconscious man's lips.
"At any rate, we're a nice couple of nurses chattering over poor Tristram's head. Will you watch for a little? Mrs. Smithers and I will relieve you."
"If you want him to live leave us alone. I shall not sleep tonight."
"In those clothes?"
She glanced down at her quaint, gold-brocaded dress.
"Yes. He loves beautiful things."
"He may think he is in Paradise and you an angel," rather satirically.
"Or perhaps men so near death see clearer——"