any one of which would be equally fatal. He will not let me know his pulse, temperature, or anything, and his perversity about his symptoms is simply phenomenal. He will not even be undressed and go to bed. If you will believe me, he had his evening clothes put on him, and there he sits, dying."
Madame de Fonblanque, without another word, advanced and opened the door for herself, shutting it carefully after her.
There, indeed, sat Mr. Romaine in his easy chair, with his feet in exquisite dancing pumps, stretched out to the fire. His face was ghastly white—but as it was always white, it did not make a great deal of difference. His eyes, though, were quite unchanged—in fact, they seemed to glow with an added fire and brilliance. Still, he was plainly dying.
"I came as soon as you sent for me," said Madame de Fonblanque, gently. "I want to say now, that if you think I bear you any anger for anything you have said or done to me, you are mistaken. I forget it all as I look at you."
"Did you think I sent for you to ask your forgiveness?" asked Mr. Romaine, faintly, but fluently.
