glad to hear that you had come. But don't
let him try to speak much.'

The change that had come over his friend's countenance was to Harold, of
course, far more gravely impressive than to those who had watched at the
bedside. In the drawn features, large sunken eyes, thin and discoloured
lips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom.
After holding the shrunken hand for a moment he was convulsed with an
agonising sob, and had to turn away.

Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him.

'Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel.'

'I will.'

Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. His
friend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the answer was
a shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to him to bend down,
and whispered:

'It doesn't matter what happens; she is mine again.'

The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea.
The drives and promenades were thronged with people in exuberant health
and spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with resentful scorn; at
another time it would have moved him merely to mirth, but not even the
sound of the breakers when he had wandered as far as possible from human
contact could help him to think with resignation of the injustice which
triumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no
shadow of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him as
profoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted features. She
and Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger than
any emotion of tenderness he had ever known.

In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of the
sufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end: a face that had
grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harold
despaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with his
forehead resting on his hand Amy touched him; Reardon had turned his
face in their direction, and with a conscious gaze.

'I shall never go with you to Greece,' he said distinctly.

There was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the deathly
mask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its lineaments, and
Reardon again spoke:

'How often you and I have quoted it!--"We are such stuff as dreams are
made on, and our--"'

The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of
utterance had exhausted him, his ey