After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid it aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.
Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about singing under her breath. They both heard her.
Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:
“I am trying to get well—to start again—better—live more—nobly. ... Take your chance, too.”
“If you wish, Drene.”
“Yes. I was not—very—well. I had been ill—very—a long while ... And you are not to clean the automatic.... Only your own-soul.... Ask help.... You’ll get it..... I did.... And—all that is true—what we believed—as boys.... I know. I’ve seen. And it’s all true—all true—what we believed—as little boys.”
He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a smile in them.
“Good-bye—Jack,” he whispered.
Graylock’s mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps Drene heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once more at his boyhood friend.
“Somewhere—somebody will straighten out—all this,” he murmured, closing his eyes again: “We can’t; we can only try—to straighten out—ourselves.”