"Is that Valentine?" he asked as some one approached.
"Yes, it is past one o'clock. I am going to bed; I suppose you will too."
"No," he answered in the dull inward voice now become habitual with him.
"Why should I come in? Val, you know where my will is?"
"Yes," said Valentine, distressed to hear him say it.
"If you and Giles have to act, you will find everything in order."
"What is to be done for him?" thought Valentine. "Oh for a woman to talk to him now!—I cannot." He took to one of the commonplaces of admonition instead: "Dear John, you must try and submit yourself to the will of God."
"You have no need to tell me of that," he answered with the same dimness of speech. "I do not rebel, but I cannot bear it. I mean," he continued, with the calmest tone of conviction, "that this is killing me."
"If only the child might be taken," thought Valentine, "he would get over it. It is the long suspense that distracts him."
"They want you to come in and eat something," he urged, "there is supper spread in the dining-room."
"No, I cannot."