‘It was an awful time for him,’ he said, his eyes on hers. ‘It was very strange—that he should be there.’
And again he looked down—poking at the grass with his stick.
She hesitated. Her lips trembled.
‘He was very glad—to be there. Only he was sorry—for you.’
‘You mean he was sorry that I wasn’t there sooner—with my father?’
‘I think that was what he felt—that there was only—a stranger.’
‘I was just in time,’ said Falloden, slowly. ‘And I wonder—whether anything matters, to the dying?’
There was a pause, after which he added, with sudden energy—
I thought—at the inquest—he himself looked pretty bad.’
‘Otto Radowitz?’ Constance covered her eyes with her hands a moment—a gesture of pain. ‘Mr. Sorell doesn’t know what to do for him. He has been losing ground lately. The doctors say he ought to live in the open air. He and Mr. Sorell talk of a cottage near Oxford, where Mr. Sorell can go often and see him. But he can’t live alone.’