"Aw, Dick," she simpered, "I hate to!"
"Just this once!" the boy pleaded.
"Just to say it!"
The reply was a bashful giggle.
"You don't have to mean it," the boy argued. "Just say it—that's all!"
They entered. Mr. Poddle was muttering the boy's name—in a vain effort to lift his voice. His hands were both at the coverlet—picking, searching: both restless in the advancing sunshine. With a sob of self-reproach the boy ran quickly to the bedside, took one of the wandering hands, pressed it to his lips. And Mr. Poddle sighed, and lay quiet again.
"Mr. Poddle," the boy whispered, "she's come at last."
There was no response.
"She's come!" the boy repeated. He gave the hand he held to the woman. Then he put his lips close to the dying man's ear. "Don't you hear me? She's come!"
Mr. Poddle opened his eyes. "Her—massive—proportions!" he faltered.