“Alas! dear, it is for you to tell me,” she said, stroking his hair; “you have loved words so well—and made so many beautiful words.”
“I know you think that I have loved nothing but words,” said the poet; “I wonder if it is true?... I think not.”
“I think you meant to love life as well,” she answered, kissing his brow gently.
She smoothed his hair a long while as they sat in silence together—the past rolling over them like a river.
Presently Wasteneys broke the silence. “I have walked in a vague course!” he said—“walked in a vague course!... if you will forgive,” he added, presently, “my quoting once more. A dying man should not quote. He is expected to say something original. Well, I will try to-morrow....”
Then there fell over him once more that ante-lethal drowsiness of death, and murmuring again, “I have walked in a vague course!” he fell asleep.
When she was sure he was asleep, his wife bent over him and kissed his lips.
“After all,” she said, “he has never grown up. He is a baby still—just a child, that is all....”
Wasteneys awoke after a little while, to find himself alone, save for the silent presence of his lawyer.
“I fell asleep,” he said, “foolishly enough—for I have little time to waste; and I shall soon have all the sleep I want....”