"I do not pray," she said steadily.
His eyebrows met. "You—do not pray? Who—taught—you—not to p—ray?"
"You did," she said quietly.
He lay back with a sigh.
"Outrageous!" murmured Miss Etta through her tears. "An awful girl—awful!"
The man on the bed smiled. He lifted his hand and let it fall back on the cover.
"It's all right—all right—all—right." The reddish-brown eyelids closed slowly.
Involuntarily a wave of pity shook me. It was consummate acting. That a man should play a part upon the very edge of life held in it something awesome, compelling attention. I drew myself together, feeling his eyes, sharp for all their floating sadness, upon me. Was he—? Was I—?—A crackling of thunder shook the ground. When it had passed, the rain came down straight and hard and windless like rapier thrusts. The room seemed, if possible, closer, more suffocating. He beckoned to Lisbeth and she went and stood near him. He was to put her through a still harder ordeal.
"You have never cared for me," he whispered.
There was no sound except for the steady pour outside and the rustle of Miss Etta's garments as she made angry motions to Lisbeth. Even at this moment, I believe, had he shown sign of any honest wish for affection, she would have given all she had.