g
whisper. "It doesn't matter. I must talk! So--you don't doubt the boy?"
Her large black eyes fixed him intently.

"No. I have no doubts--that he is my son. But his condition is very
piteous. I have asked a specialist to come down."

There was a gleam of scorn in her expression.

"That'll do no good. I suppose--you think--we neglected the boy.
_Niente_. We did the best we could. He was under a splendid man--in
Naples--as good as any one here. He told me nothing could be done--and
nothing can be done."

Buntingford had the terrible impression that there was a certain
triumph in the faint tone. He said nothing, and presently the whisper
began again.

"I keep seeing those people dancing--and hearing the band. I dropped a
little bag--did anybody find it?"

"Yes, I have it here." He drew it out of his pocket, and put it in her
hand, which feebly grasped it.

"Rocca gave it to me at Florence once, I am very fond of it. I suppose
you wonder that--I loved him?"

There was a strange and tragic contrast between the woman's weakness, and
her bitter provocative spirit; just as there was between the picturesque
strength of Buntingford--a man in his prime--and the humble, deprecating
gentleness of his present voice and manner.

"No," he answered. "I am glad--if it made you happy."

"Happy!" She opened her eyes again. "Who's ever happy? We were
never happy!"

"Yes--at the beginning," he said, with a certain firmness. "Why take
that away?"

She made a protesting movement.

"No--never! I was always--afraid. Afraid you'd get tired of me. I was
only happy--working--and when they hung my picture--in the Salon--you
remember?"

"I remember it well."

"But I was always jealous--of you. You drew better--than I did. That made
me miserable."

After a long pause, during which he gave her some of the prepared
stimulant Ramsay had left ready, she spoke again, with rather more
vigour.

"Do you remember--that Artists' Fete--in the Bois--when I went as
Primavera--Botticelli's Primavera?"

"Perfectly."

"I was as handsome then--as that girl you were rowing. And now--But I
don't want to die!"--she said with sudden anguish--"Why should I die? I
was quite well a fortnight ago. Why does that doctor frighten me so?" She
tried to sit more erect, panting for breath. He did his best to soothe
her, to induce her to go back to bed. But she resisted with all her
remaining strength; instead, she drew him down to her.

"Tell me!--conf