"What the dickens is the matter with you, Jane?"
He did not guess. He could never read her thoughts.
"I believe you ought to rouse yourself, old girl. I suppose old Eldridge sees a chance of running up a nice little bill—and Yates will have her bit out of it. Between them, they'll persuade you you're going to kick the bucket."
"I feel so tired, Dick."
"Then go on taking it easy," said Marsden genially. "But here's my tip—look out for another doctor, and another maid. I wouldn't bid twopence, if both of them were put up to auction."
Another time he said, "Jane, do you twig why I am wearing my topper? That means business. Yes, I'm going to throw myself into my work now, heart and soul. Buck up as soon as you can, and come and see how I'm setting about me."
While he stood by the door, talking and smoking, she looked at him with dull but kind eyes.
Some of the glamour of that vanished hope still hung about him; and the sense of gratitude, although now meaningless, lingered for a long while. But for herself, it would have been a fact instead of an hysterical fancy. It was her fault, not his.
When he had shut the door, she thought of herself dully, without pity, in stupid wonder.
This is the end. The heats of summer gone; the mimic warmth of autumn gone, too; nothing left but the cold, dead winter—the end of all.