It roused a sudden feeling of anger in him. He would not—was there nothing in her he could touch, in those eyes that looked at him so coldly? He stopped talking, breathing quickly—he felt quite out of breath. A low chord, suddenly struck, vibrated softly through the room. He rose half way from his seat with his hands stretched out to lay them upon hers.
She began to speak. What was she saying? He sank back again.
“Mr. Nielsen, I want you to tell me about poor Mrs.—poor Irma’s death. Jacopo told me you were there.”
“Ah! poor lady! a dreadful thing!” He looked at her face tense and compassionate, and was doubtful of what he should tell her.
“But how did it happen? You were there, weren’t you?” she said.
“Well, no! I was not exactly there at the time, you know. It so happened that I came to call soon after she died. I was the first to find her.”
“But what was it? Why was it? It was so dreadfully sudden.”
“She died about three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, you know. It was verry terrible—verry sad—the heart—” he stammered. Looking at the white, sensitive face that hung upon his words, he had decided to lie about that tragic ending, but it was not easy to do so to her, and he stammered.
“Is that all?” The words were so incisive, the sentence so short that it gave him no time.
“It was morphia,” he said with a sudden, overwhelming conviction that lying was futile. “Poor lady! An overdose, don’t you know—she was in the habit—”