His tone was tender as a woman's. His ghostly face, disfigured by exhaustion, showed him absorbed in pity. Mary, standing near, longed to kneel down by him, and weep; but there was an austere sense that not even she must interrupt the moment of recognition.
At last it came. Hester opened her eyes—
"Uncle Richard?—Is that Uncle Richard?"
A long silence, broken by moaning, while Meynell knelt there, watching her, sometimes whispering to her.
At last she said, "I couldn't face you all. I'm dying." She moved her right hand restlessly. "Give me something for this pain—I—I can't stand it."
"Dear Hester—can you bear it a little longer? We will do all we can. We have sent for the doctor. He has a motor. He will be here very soon."
"I don't want to live. I want to stop the pain. Uncle Richard!"
"Yes, dear Hester."
"I hate Philip—now."
"It's best not to talk of him, dear. You want all your strength."