"Ah, that's different; we were brought up together. Tell me—the Nina he is always talking about—I suppose that is the Italian girl who was at the theatre, and whom he knew in Naples—he used to write home about her—"
"He uttered a loud shriek, and struggled wildly to raise himself."
"Yes," he said; "and it is only now I am beginning to understand something of the situation. I do believe mental distress has had as much to do with bringing on this fever as anything else; the chill may have been only an accident that developed it. I told you when I saw him, before he was struck down, how he seemed to be all at sixes and sevens with himself—everything wrong—worried, harassed, and sick of life, though
he would hardly explain anything; he was always too proud to ask for pity. Well, now, I am piecing together a story, out of these incoherent appeals and recollections that come into his delirium; and if I am right, it is a sad enough one, for it seems to me so hopeless. I believe he was all the time in love with that Nina—Miss Ross—and did not know it; for their association, their companionship, was so constant, so like an intimate friendship. Then there seems to have been some misunderstanding, and she went away unexpectedly—there is a box of jewels and trinkets on the top of the piano, and I am certain these were what she sent back to him when she left. I don't think he has the slightest idea where she is; and that is troubling him more than anything else—"
"But, Maurice," said Francie, instantly, "could we not find out where she is?—surely she would come and see him and pacify his mind; it would just make all the difference! Surely we could find out where she is!"
Mangan hesitated; it was not the first time this idea had occurred to himself.