"I thought so…. But you know. Because, Neville, you are the man who is coming into what was mine, and what will be your own;—and you are coming into more than that, Neville, more than I ever could have attained. Now answer me; will my work live?"
"Always," said Neville simply.
Querida smiled:
"The rest doesn't matter then…. Even Valerie doesn't matter…. But you may hand me one of her roses…. No, a bud, if you don't mind—unopened."
When it was time for Neville to go Querida's smile had faded and the pink rose-bud lay wilted in his fingers.
"It is just as well, Neville," he said. "I couldn't have endured your advent. Somebody has to be first; I was—as long as I lived…. It is curious how acquiescent a man's mind becomes—when he's like this. I never believed it possible that a man really could die without regret, without some shadow of a desire to live. Yet it is that way, Neville…. But a man must lie dying before he can understand it."
* * * * *
A highly tinted uncle from Oporto arrived in New York just in time to see Querida alive. He brought with him a parrot.
"Send it to Mrs. Hind-Willet," whispered Querida with stiffening lips; "uno lavanta la caça y otro la nata."
A few minutes later he died, and his highly coloured uncle from Oporto sent the bird to Mrs. Hind-Willet and made the thriftiest arrangement possible to transport what was mortal of a great artist to Oporto—where a certain kind of parrot comes from.