toward the gate
and in the direction of the brick path.

As she came up to it she gave a low cry, lifted her hands to her heart;
the basket of flowers fell to the earth and scattered their purple
blooms at her feet. Then the hands that had gone to her heart
extended, she held out her arms and went forwards, crying her husband's
name.

The Duke of Westboro' had managed to pick himself up. He was a strong
man, in the fulness of health and vigor; there was nothing of the
mollycoddle about the last Duke of the line. The sound of voices had
reached his dull ear, his swoon was over, and he had manfully, with a
few sturdy curses, pulled himself up and now stood, albeit very pale,
clinging to the gatepost, leaning on it, finding his legs shaking and
his balance not all he could wish. Before him was a little brick
house, with bright curtains in the windows, and between it and himself,
lovely as a ghost, and no less white, was his wife, and her arms were
extended towards him.

"Cecil!" she cried. "Oh, my God! Cecil, what has happened to you?"

Before Westboro' knew it, the arms to which he had gone in visions were
about him and the soft shoulder gave him a prop more fragile perhaps
than the stone against which he leaned, but it was a living support,
and it felt warm and wonderful.

"Don't," he said vaguely, "get near me. I'm nasty and bloody. It's
all right; I'm only a bit scratched, really. A lot of beastly shot has
gone off into my shoulder. Just call some one to help me, will you?"

"Cecil," she said, "lean on me, put your arm around my shoulder; you
can perfectly well get along with only me. Come, come!"

The Duke saw that he could perfectly get along with another faint--he
was near to it, but something besides his wound and his light head kept
him manfully to his feet. With his left hand he very firmly pushed the
Duchess a little away from him.

"Come?" he repeated. "Come where?"

"Home," said the Duchess with a catch in her voice--she was bearing up.
"Oh, lean on me! You'll fall, you'll fall! Mellon!" she cried. "O
Mellon!"

But the Duke put up his hand. "I'm all right," he said. "Don't call.
What house is that? What home do you mean?"

"Mine," said the Duchess, "my house--that is, I mean to say, Mr.
Bulstrode's."

The Duchess saw a slight wave of red rush up her husband's pale cheek.

"Damn Bulstrode!" he breathed. "What the devil does he do here? I saw
you together--I saw you not half