” She took his hand, interrupting him. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. ‘Parbleu, is this a moment to be out of town? What is the matter with him that he is out of town when I need him?’ ‘Famous!’ uttered a new voice from the doorway. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. But I never found any truth in the saying. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I know he is dead.
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