'Dead. 'Tis all over.'
Still Simone made no reply. She opened the lifeless hands, and pressed her cheeks into the cup of the palms. Marion's head sank down again, the warm russet hair touching the smooth brown. A trembling seized her. Suddenly she sprang up, shaking her hands free.
'Tell me,' she said as Simone faced her, 'do you think he is dead?'
'I am quite sure he is not.'
Simone glanced hastily round the room. There was a decanter of wine on a side table. Quickly she poured out a glass, and gently forcing Marion into the chair, held the glass to her lips. With her eyes on Simone's face, Marion drank a few drops, then pushed the wine away.
Simone took up her position on the rug again, and holding the girl's hand, looked into the fixed grey eyes that were watching her.
'Listen,' she said. 'He is not dead. There is not time.'
'Not time?' Marion tried to shake off the stupor into which she had fallen. She pressed her hands to her face.
'No—there is not time,' continued Simone. 'It is but a few days. Charity wrote on Saturday. To-day is Wednesday. And also, they would not dare.'
'Not dare?'