"You did quite right," she said, peremptorily—"quite right."
Then she raised herself on her arm and looked at him.
"William!" she said, with a strange, kindled expression. "I—I don't think I can live any more! I think—I'm dying—here—now!"
She fell back on her pillows, and he sprang to his feet, crying that he must go for Fräulein Anna and a doctor. But she held him feebly, motioning towards the brandy and strychnine. "That's all—you can do."
He gave them to her, and again she revived and smiled at him.
"Don't be frightened. It was a sudden feeling—it came over me—that this dear little room—and your arms—would be the end. Oh, how much best! There!—that was foolish!—I'm better. It isn't only the lungs, you see; they say the heart's worst. I nearly went at Vevey, one night. It was such a long faint."
Then she lay quiet, with her hand in his, in a dreamy, peaceful state, and his panic subsided. Once she sent messages to Lady Tranmore—messages full of sorrow, touched also—by a word here, a look there—by the charm of the old Kitty.
"I don't deserve to die like this," she said, once, with a half-impatient gesture. "Nothing can prevent it's being beautiful—and touching—you know; our meeting like this—and your goodness to me. Oh, I'm glad! But I don't want to glorify—what I've done. Shame! Shame!"
And again her face contracted with the old habitual agony, only to be soothed away gradually by his tone and presence, the spending of his whole being in the broken words of love.
Towards the morning, when, as it seemed to him, she had been sleeping for a time, and he had been, if not sleeping, at least dreaming awake beside her, he heard a little, low laugh, and looked round. Her brown eyes were wide open, till they seemed to fill the small, blighted face; and they were fixed on an empty chair the other side of the fire.