When he came to his senses he was in his bed--comfortable, weak, lazy.
With a slight effort he caught the thread of events. He turned his
eyes and saw a nurse, seated at the head of his bed, reading. "Am I
going to die?" he asked--his voice was thin and came in faint gusts.

"Certainly not," replied the nurse, putting down her book and standing
over him, her face showing genuine reassurance and cheerfulness.

"You'll be well very soon. But you must lie quiet and not talk."

"Was it a bad wound?"

"The fever was the worst. The bullet glanced round just under the
surface."

"It was an accident," he said, after a moment's thought. "I suppose
everybody is saying I tried to kill myself."

"'Everybody' doesn't know anything about it. Almost nobody knows.
Even the servants don't know. Your secretary sent them away, broke in
and found you."

He closed his eyes and slept.

When he awoke again he felt that a long time had passed, that he was
much better, that he was hungry. "Nurse!" he called.

The woman at the head of the bed rose and laid a cool hand upon his
forehead. "How good that feels," he mumbled gratefully. "What nice
hands you have, nurse," and he lifted his glance to her face. He
stared wonderingly, confusedly. "I thought I was awake and almost
well," he murmured. "And instead, I'm out of my head."

"Can I do anything for you?" It certainly was HER voice.

"Is it you, Pauline?" he asked, as if he feared a negative answer.

"Yes--John."

A long silence, then he said: "Why did you come?"

"The doctor wrote me that--wrote me the truth."

"But haven't you heard? Haven't you seen the papers? Don't they say
I'm ruined?"

"Yes, John."

He lay silent for several minutes. Then he asked hesitatingly:
"And--when--do you--go back--West?"

"I have come to stay," she replied. Neither in her voice nor in her
face was there a hint of what those five words meant to her.

He closed his eyes again. Presently a tear slid from under each lid
and stood in the deep, wasted hollows of his eye-sockets.

XXVI.

A DESPERATE RALLY.

When he awoke again he felt that he should get well rapidly. He was
weak, but it seemed the weakness of hunger rather than of illness. His
head was clear, his nerves tranquil; his mind was as hungry for action
as his body was for food.

"As soon as I've had something to eat," he said to himself, "I'll be
better than for years. I needed this." And straightwa