Kitty, his hostess, drew back, and seemed
to leave these things to Lucia as her right. He knew it was Lucia, and
not Kitty, who ran up to his room to see that all was comfortable and
that his fire burnt well. In everything she said and did there was a
peculiar gentleness and care. It was on the same lines as Kitty's
compassion, only more poignant and intense. It was, he thought, as if
she knew that it was for the last time, that of all these pleasant
things to-morrow would see the end. Was it kind of her to let him know
what her tenderness could be when to-morrow must end it all? For he
had no notion of the fear evoked by his appearance, the fear that was
in both their hearts. He did not know why they looked at him with
those kind glances, nor why Lucia told him that Robert was close at
hand if he should want anything in the night. He slept in the room
that had once been Lucia's, the room above the library, looking to the
western hills. He did not know that they had given it him because it
was a good room to be ill and to get well in.
Lucia and Kitty sat up late that night over the fire, and they talked
of him.
Kitty began it. "_Do_ you remember," said she, "the things we used to
say about him?"
"Oh don't, Kitty; I do."
"You needn't mind; it was only I who said them."
"Yes, you said them; but I thought them."
Then she told Kitty what had brought him there and the story that he
had told her. "And, Kitty, all the time I knew he lied.
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