"I can't take it," she said with a shudder. "What shall I do with it?"
"There are ways—hospitals, if you care to. . . . Good-night, child."
She stretched out her gloved arm to him; he took her hand very gently and retained it while he spoke.
"I wish you happiness," he said; "I ask your forgiveness."
"Give me mine, then."
"Yes—if there is anything to forgive. Good-night."
"Good-night—boy," she gasped.
He turned sharply, quivering under the familiar name. Her maid, standing in the snow, moved forward, and he motioned her to enter the brougham.
"Home," he said unsteadily; and stood there very still for a minute or two, even after the carriage had whirled away into the storm. Then, looking up at the house, he felt for his keys; but a sudden horror of being alone arrested him, and he stepped back, calling out to his cabman, who was already turning his horse's head, "Wait a moment; I think I'll drive back to Mrs. Gerard's. . . . And take your time."