“Well, what is it, Mr. Flint?”
“It’s.... Come here.... It’s Nordenholt; he....”
Before I had completed the sentence she had risen and passed me. I think she must have seen something in my face which led her to expect the worst news. She went up to the desk where Nordenholt was still leaning with his face on his arms. Like me, she did not immediately grasp what had happened.
“Uncle Stanley! What’s wrong? Aren’t you well?”
She rested her hand on his shoulder and shook him gently, just as I had done. In the silence, I heard, far down the Clyde, the roaring of the atomic engine—the great call sweeping across the Area and bearing with it the news of Nordenholt’s final triumph. They were varying the running of the machine and the waves of sound rose and fell like the beating of gigantic wings above the city.
Suddenly she turned to me.
“What is it? You don’t mean he’s dead?”
I could only nod in answer; I could not find words. For an instant she stood, leaning over him, and then she slipped down beside his chair and put her arms round him.
“Oh, he’s dead. He’s dead. He’ll never speak to me again!... And I hated him, I hated him.... I made it hard for him.... And now he can’t tell me if he forgives me.... Oh, what shall I do, Jack? What shall I do? Please help me. He was so good to me; and I hurt him so.... Oh, please help me, Jack. Tell me he forgave me.... I’ve only got you now....”