d still to say, things which must certainly be
said.

CHAPTER XXIX

In the same room one afternoon a fortnight later, Oswyn sat,
absently correcting the draft catalogue of his exhibition, when he
received an intimation, which for some days he had expected--his
friend felt strong enough to see him. He put down his pen, glancing
up inquiringly at the bearer of this message, a young woman in the
neat, depressing garb of a professional nurse; but for answer she
slightly shook her head with the disinterested complacency of the
woman used to sickness, who would encourage no false notions.

"It is only temporary," she said with deliberation. "I fear there
has been no real improvement; the patient is steadily losing
strength. Only he insists on seeing you; and when they are like
that, one must give them what they want. I must beg you to excite
him as little as possible."

Oswyn bowed a dreary assent, and followed her up the obscure
staircase, which creaked sullenly beneath his tread. And he stood
for a few moments in silence, until his eyes were accustomed to the
darkened room, when the nurse had gently closed the door behind him,
leaving him alone with his friend.

He almost believed, at first, that Rainham must be sleeping, he lay
back with such extreme quietness in the large old-fashioned bed. And
seeing him there in that new helplessness, he realized, almost for
the first time, how little there was to say or to hope.

He had never, indeed, been ignorant that his friend's hold on life
was precarious; some such scene as this had often been in his mind
before; only, insensibly, Rainham's own jesting attitude towards his
disabilities had half imposed on him, and made that possibility
appear intangible and remote. But now, in view of the change which
the last fortnight had wrought in him, he could cherish no
illusions; the worst that was possible was all now that one could
expect. He was a charming, generous, clever fellow, and he was
dying; that was a thing one could not get over.

He moved across to the bedside, and Rainham's eyes suddenly opened.
They were immensely large, strangely brilliant; his face had fallen
in, was so white and long and lean, that these tremendous eyes
seemed almost all of the man that was still to be accounted.

Oswyn derived the impression from them that, while his friend's body
had been failing, his mind had never been more vigorous; that,
during these long nights and days, when he h