it a long time, ze poor
young man. There, it is finished."

He showed her the picture without comment. He had to hold it for
her--hold it very close--for she had exhausted herself with that last
gesture of bravado. And then, as she smiled, a protest born of
gathering distress and doubt burst from him.

"Why do you allow--this--hideous, impossible pretence?"

He could feel the old woman turn towards him like a wild beast
preparing to spring. But she herself lay still, with closed eyes. He
had to bend down to catch the remote suffering whisper.

"_C'est vrai_. We 'ave--such good times. And they come 'ere--all
those kind people--who 'ave laughed so much--and bring flowers--and
pretend it is not true. And they won't believe--and when they see it
they won't believe--they won't dare----" She tried to speak more
clearly, clinging to his hand for the first time, whilst a sweat of
agony broke out upon her face and made ghastly channels through its
paint and powder. "_Vous voyez_--for them--I am--ze good times. They
come to me--for good times. When they are too sad--when things too
'ard for them and they cannot believe any more--that ze good times come
again--they think of me. '_Voyons, la_ Gyp, she 'ave a good time
always--she dance at 'er own funeral!' But if they see me 'ere--like
this--they go away--and think in their 'earts: '_Grand Dieu, c'est
comme ca avec nous tous_--_avec nous tous_,' and they not laugh with
me--any more."

Her hand let go its hold--suddenly.

They sent for him that night. Haemorrhage had set in. There was a
light burning by her bedside, for she had complained of the darkness.
She wore a lace cap trimmed with blue ribbons, but she had not had
strength to paint her lips and cheeks again, and the old woman's
efforts had ended pitifully. She had grown very small in the last few
hours, and with her thin, daubed face and blood-stained lips, she
looked like a sorrowful travesty of the little circus clown who had
ridden the fat pony and shouted "_Oh la--la_!" and blown kisses to the
people.

She smiled vaguely in Stonehouse's direction, but she was only half
conscious. Her hand strayed over the gorgeous quilt, stroking it with
a kind of simple pleasure.

(She was like that, too, he thought--a dash of gay, unashamed colour in
the sad scheme of things.)

Towards midnight she motioned to him and whispered something that he
could not understand. But the old woman rose heavily from h