The girl looked up. "Mr. Deane's kindness is quite unnecessary," she said. "We are in no want of money."
"Your sister does not quite understand," Deane said, turning to him. "We have been through too many rough times in Africa together to stand upon ceremony now. You will perhaps be able to explain to her later on."
He took up his hat and turned toward the door. "I shall expect to hear from you," he said, "as soon as you have decided where to go,--either from you, Rowan," he added, shaking hands with him, "or from your sister."
"You are very kind, Deane," Rowan said. "I am sorry I have made such a mess of things."
"It was not your fault," Deane answered. "Good-day, Miss Rowan!"
She looked at him for a moment, but she did not offer to take his outstretched hand. He smiled, and withdrew it at once.
The door closed behind him. Rowan was watching his sister anxiously. "Winifred," he said, "what is the matter with you? You were scarcely civil to Mr. Deane."
"Oh! I think I was," she answered. "In any case, we don't want to take alms from him, do we?"
"He can afford it," Rowan declared. "He is very rich. A thousand pounds to him is like sixpence to us."
"It doesn't alter facts," she rejoined. "I do not like Mr. Deane, Basil. It is through him that this trouble has come upon us. You have taken enough of his money."
"And when I am gone?" he asked. "What about you then?"
"Have I ever failed to make my own way?" she asked quietly. "I shall be safe enough, Basil."
He commenced to cough, and very soon further speech was impossible. He was painfully exhausted. She sat by his side until he went off to sleep. Of his hopeless state there could no longer be any doubt. He was wasted almost to a shadow. Even in sleep his breath came heavily, and a fever seemed upon him. She stole softly from his side, and stood for a few minutes at the window, looking out. Below, the pulse of the great world was beating with the same maddening regularity. The stream of wayfarers swept on, the roar of traffic was as inevitable as the waves of the sea. She stood by the window with small, clenched hands. Behind her, his loud breathing seemed to beat out the time toward Death.
Deane himself was one of those wayfarers, but at least his thoughts, as he was being whirled eastward in his brougham, were fixed upon the tragedy which he had left behind him. He knew very well that it was not a question of months but of days with Basil Rowan. Was it only for that that the girl was waiting? Her whole attitude towards him had about it a certain flavor of mystery which oppressed him. It was like trying to face an enemy hidden in a darkened room, listening for his footstep, not knowing whence the blow might fall. Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, he shivered a little as he descended from the carriage and entered his offices.