So Fleur had remembered to come and have a look at him!

“How are you now, dear?”

“All right; tired. How was the opera?”

“Middling.”

“I’ve told them to call us at seven. We’ll breakfast on the train.”

Her lips touched his forehead. If—if that woman—but never—never once—never of her own accord—!

“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well!”

The light on the wall narrowed and was gone! Well! He was drowsy now. But, in this house—Shapes—Shapes! Past—present—at the piano—at his bedside—passing—passing by—and there, behind them, the great bronze-hooded woman, with the closed eyes, deep sunk in everlasting—profound—pro—! And from Soames a gentle snore escaped.