Miss Beggs had disappeared.
"Very well," he agreed heavily.
Mounting the stairs he fumbled for his cigar case, and entered the
chamber beyond his, clipping the end from a superlative perfecto.
Emmy was in bed, propped up on a bank of embroidered pillows. A light
from one side threw the shadow of her head on a wall in an animated
caricature of life.
"I didn't want to disturb you, August."
Her voice was weak and apologetic. He stood irritably beside her.
"It's hot in here." His wife at once detected whatever assaulted his
complete comfort. She fell into a silence that strained his patience to
the utmost.
When at last she spoke it was in a tone of voice he had never heard
from her--impersonal, with at the same time a note of fear like the
flutter of a bird's wing.
"The doctor has been here two or three times lately. I didn't want to
bother you, and he said----"
She broke off, and her hand raised from her side in a gesture of
seeking. He held it uncomfortably, wishing that the occasion would
speedily end.
"August, I've--I've got to leave you."
He did not comprehend her meaning, and stood stupidly looking down at
her spent face. "I'm going to die, August, almost any time now. I
wanted to tell you first when we were quietly together; and then Louise
and Bernard must know."
His sensations were so confused, the mere shock of such an announcement
had so confounded him that he was unable to penetrate the meaning of
the sudden expansion of his blood.
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