“Yes, nurse.”
The economic agent swept her up and down. “It's a pleasure to look at you. You've got quite a colour, for you. After all, I believe it MIGHT do her good to see you. Come in!”
Gyp passed in behind her, and stood gazing, not daring to step forward. What a white face, with eyes closed, with fair hair still damp on the forehead, with one white hand lying on the sheet above her heart! What a frail madonna of the sugar-plums! On the whole of that bed the only colour seemed the gold hoop round the wedding-finger.
The economic agent said very quietly:
“Look, my dear; I've brought you a nice visitor.”
Daphne Wing's eyes and lips opened and closed again. And the awful thought went through Gyp: 'Poor thing! She thought it was going to be him, and it's only me!' Then the white lips said:
“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, it's you—it is kind of you!” And the eyes opened again, but very little, and differently.
The economic agent slipped away. Gyp sat down by the bed and timidly touched the hand.
Daphne Wing looked at her, and two tears slowly ran down her cheeks.
“It's over,” she said just audibly, “and there's nothing now—it was dead, you know. I don't want to live. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, why can't they let me die, too?”