"How sweet the limes smelt, dear," he whispered, "and the bees hummed all the time among the flowers."
She thought for a moment that he was wandering, but he went on quietly.
"It was your letter that brought it all back. You have been faithful—all these years—and I—was a fool!"
Her clasp on his hand tightened.
"Did you forget," she asked—"did you forget? Was there someone else?"
The smile flickered out again upon his face.
"No, no, my dear, there was no someone else. There was nothing but my work—it wrapped me round, it has made me a successful man—and it—has spoilt my life! They call me Dryasdust, you know," his weak voice went on. "Somebody told me once that I had no heart."
"Ah, but it wasn't true," she said.
"Wasn't it? I don't know; I was a fool, and blind—I—but now it is too late, my Joan."
The little caressing words came strangely from the thin lips, but the hard, old face had softened in some unaccountable fashion.