He had been reading to Isola nearly all day. He was reading to himself now, trying to forget his own grief in the consideration of a leading article which prophecied a European war, and the ultimate extinction of English influence in continental politics.
There was perfect stillness in the room. Isola had been lying with closed eyes a little time before, and he fancied that she was sleeping.
The silence had lasted for nearly an hour, broken only by the shriek of the wind, and by the chiming of the quarters from the Church of La Trinità de’ Monti, when Colonel Disney was startled by his wife’s hand clutching his arm, and his wife’s agitated whisper sounding close to his ear.
“Martin! Did you see him?”
She had lifted herself into a sitting position, she who had not been able to sit up for many days past.
The hectic bloom had faded from her cheeks and left them ashy pale. Her eyes seemed almost starting from her head, straining their gaze as if to penetrate the deepening shadows on the landing beyond the half-open door.
“My love, you have been dreaming,” said Disney, soothing her with womanly gentleness. “Lie down again, my poor dear. See, let me arrange the pillows and make you quite comfortable.”
“No, no! I was not dreaming. I have not been asleep. He was there. I saw him as plainly as I see you. He pushed the door a little further open and looked in at me. I saw his face in the lamplight, very pale.”
Disney glanced at the door involuntarily. Yes, the aperture was certainly wider than when he looked at it last; just as if some one’s hand had pushed the door a little further back. The hand of the wind, no doubt.