Mornice lowered the gas, and, taking Eliphalet’s hand, sat beside him.
The Old Card was very restless, and rambled in his mind and speech. Fragments of disjointed sentences and long out-of-use quotations came from his lips. Once he snatched away his hand and cried “Put them up!”
Very gently Mornice soothed him and regained his hand.
“I’m sure I was right—a blackguard,” muttered Eliphalet. “And she little more than a child—clever—dear child! With a little training, a little care—‘Have you a daughter? Let her not walk in the sun.’ I’ve no daughter—no child—nothing. That’s so, old boy; that’s so.”
“Ssh!” whispered Mornice. “You must go to sleep. Ssh!”
“Who’s that?” He spoke in a startled tone.
“It’s me—Mornice.”
“ ‘Me, Mornice’—No—‘I,’ Mornice, ‘I’—a little training—a little guidance.” His voice trailed away into silence. When next he spoke it was to ask:
“What’s the time?”
“Three o’clock.”