" From his lonely arrogance his spirit flung itself down,
grieving, beside her mysterious, incalculable good.
He could hear the jolly bang-bang of the drum and the whoop of a
trumpet. He could see her catherine-wheeling round the stage, and the
man with the bloated face and tragic, intelligent eyes.
"Life itself, my dear fellow, life itself."
And she was dead.
EPILOGUE
For a moment they stared at one another. He did not at once recognize
Connie Edwards, in the puritanical serge frock and with her air of
rather conscious sobriety, and he himself stood in the shadow. He
thought:
"She's wondering if I'm a tramp." He felt like one, broken and shabby.
"Dr. Wilmot?" he muttered.
She leant closer.
"Oh, hallo--Robert." She corrected herself severely, and held the door
wide open. "Dr. Stonehouse--to be sure. Francey's upstairs."
She led the way. It was almost as though she had been expecting him.
At any rate, she was not surprised at all. But half-way up the stairs
she glanced back over her shoulder.
"I don't usually open the door. I'm her secretary. And a damn good
one too. Rather a jest, eh, what?"
"Rather," he said.
And it was really the same room--a fire burning and the faun dancing in
the midst of its moving shadows. There was a faint, warm scent of
cigarette smoke and a solemn pile of books beside her deep chair. It
wouldn't be like Francey to rest under her laurels.
She held both his hands in hers.
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