He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The rug had slipped from his knees. He tried to reach for it and failed. But he did not want to call the day nurse. He wanted some one with him who—cared. He raised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture. He was cold and tired.
He wished that Bronson would come back—good old Bronson, to pull up the rug. He wished that Derry might come.
A door below opened and shut. Some one was ascending the stairs. Some one who walked with a light step—some one slim and youthful, in a white gown—!
"Edith—?"
But Edith's hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edith would have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on the top step as if afraid to advance.
"Who are you?"
"Jean—"
"Jean?"
"Derry's wife."
"Come here." He tried to reach out his hand to her, but could not. His tongue felt thick—.