A satirical gleam of triumph gleamed across the sick man's face and
vanished, leaving him a wronged and silently passive creature.
"You can shut the door tight, now you've _come_," said Miss Etta. "A
draft won't do him any good."
With this greeting she turned her back. There was a moment's silence,
while Lisbeth pushed shut the flimsy door, and I, to cover her
embarrassment, helped her make it fast. I noticed then that she was
carrying a small leather case.
"Thermos bottles," she explained, as an aroma of comfort escaped them.
But the man on the bed shook his head, as she approached.
"Not now," he said plaintively. His look reproached her. Tears stood
thickly in Miss Etta's eyes. She pulled Lisbeth aside with a series of
jerks at her elbow.
"Too late for that now," I heard her whisper sententiously. And then:
"You had your chance."
I saw the hand, that disengaged Miss Etta's clutch, tremble; and for an
instant I thought the girl would break down under the benumbing
thickness of their emotion. But she merely unfastened her coat, walking
towards the window as though seeking composure, as I had, in the cold
shadows without, in the blurred outlines of the old mill and the
intrepid row of turkeys.
He beckoned to her, but she did not see him. Rapidly failing as he was,
I was certain that he was by no means without power of speech.
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