No,' said Leonora, 'I'll pin my skirt up and walk. I shall be half way
there before he's ready to start.'

When Leonora had departed, John redoubled his activity as a nurse.
'There's no object in changing the cloths as often as that,' said Rose.
But his suspense forbade him to keep still. Rose annoyed him
excessively, and the nervous energy which should have helped towards
self-control was expended in concealing that annoyance. He felt as
though he should go mad unless something decisive happened very soon. To
his surprise, just after the hall clock (which was always kept
half-an-hour fast) had sounded three through the dark passages of the
apprehensive house, Rose left the room. He was alone with what remained
of Uncle Meshach. He moved the blanket, and touched the cloth which lay
on Meshach's heart. 'Not too hot, that,' he said aloud. Taking the cloth
he walked to the fire, where was a large saucepan full of nearly boiling
water. He picked up the lid of the saucepan, dropped it, crossed over to
the washstand with a brusque movement, and plunged the cloth into the
cold water of the ewer. Holding it there, he turned and gazed in a sort
of abstract meditation at Uncle Meshach, who steadily ignored him. He
was possessed by a genuine feeling of righteous indignation against his
uncle.... He drew the cloth from the ewer, squeezed it a little, and
approached the bed again. And as he stood over Meshach with the cloth in
his hand, he saw his wife in the doorway. He knew in an instant that his
own face had frightened her and prevented her from saying what she was
about to say.

'How you startled me, Nora!' he exclaimed, with his surpassing genius
for escaping from an apparently fatal situation.

She ran up to the bed. 'Don't keep uncle uncovered like that,' she said;
'put it on.' And she took the cloth from his hand. 'Why,' she cried,
'it's like ice! What on earth are you doing? Where's Rose?'

'I was just taking it off,' he replied. 'What about aunt?'

'I met the girls down the road,' she said. 'Your aunt is dead.'

* * * * *

A few minutes later Uncle Meshach's rigid frame suffered a convulsion;
the whole surface of his skin sweated abundantly; his eyes wavered,
closed, and opened again; his mouth made the motion of swallowing. He
had come back from unconsciousness. He was no longer an enigma, wrapped
in supercilious and inflexible calm; but a sick, shrivelled little man,
so pitiably pros