er knees
and went over to the gramophone, thrusting aside with savage resolution
the nurse who tried to intercept her. Stonehouse himself made an
involuntary gesture.

"Why not?" he said. "Let her alone."

He stood close to her and waited. He felt that some part of him was
dying with her, that he stood with her before a black partition which
was thinning slowly, and that presently they would both know whatever
lay beyond.

The macaw fidgeted on its golden perch, craning towards the light and
blinking uneasily as though a strange thing had come into the room.
The needle scratched under a shaking hand.

"I'm Gyp Labelle;
Come dance with me. . ."

He bent over her so that his face almost touched hers.

"I'm sorry--I'm sorry, Gyp."

She turned her head a little, her lips moving. It was evident that she
had not really heard. But he knew that she had never borne him malice.

And then suddenly it was over. He had broken through. Beyond were
understanding and peace and strange and difficult tears. He loved her,
as beneath the fret and heat of passion Cosgrave and all those others
had loved her, for what she sincerely was and for the brave, gay thing
she had to give. He loved her more simply still as in rare moments of
their lives men love one another, saying: "This is my brother--this is
my sister." From his lonely arrogance his spirit flung itself down,
grieving, beside her mysterious, incalculable good.

He could hear the jolly bang-bang of the drum and the whoop of a
trumpet. He could see her catherine-wheeling round the stage, and the
man with the bloated face and tragic, intelligent eyes.

"Life itself, my dear fellow, life itself."

And she was dead.

EPILOGUE

For a moment they stared at one another. He did not at once recognize
Connie Edwards, in the puritanical serge frock and with her air of
rather conscious sobriety, and he himself stood in the shadow. He
thought:

"She's wondering if I'm a tramp." He felt like one, broken and shabby.

"Dr. Wilmot?" he muttered.

She leant closer.

"Oh, hallo--Robert." She corrected herself severely, and held the door
wide open. "Dr. Stonehouse--to be sure. Francey's upstairs."

She led the way. It was almost as though she had been expecting him.
At any rate, she was not surprised at all. But half-way up the stairs
she glanced back over her shoulder.

"I don't usually open the door. I'm her secretary. And a damn good
one too.