“And they’ve left him a different man,” she added.  “But what have you been doing to get wet like that?  Dear, dear, dear!  I do call it foolish of yer!  Well, sir, get out o’ them nasty wet things, or I shall have you to nurse an’ all!”

The kind, blunt soul bustled to bring him a large can of scalding water, and Langholm bathed and changed before going near the invalid.  He also felt another man.  The thorough wetting had cooled his spirit and calmed his nerves.  His head still ached for sleep, but now it was clear enough.  If only his duty were half as plain as the mystery that was one no more!  Yet it was something to have solved the prime problem; nay, everything, since it freed his mind for concentration upon his own immediate course.  But Langholm reckoned without his stricken guest next door; and went up presently, intending to stay five or ten minutes at the most.

Severino lay smiling, like a happy and excited child.  Langholm was sorry to detect the excitement, but determined to cut his own visit shorter than ever.  It was more pleasing to him to note how neat and comfortable the room was now, for that was his own handiwork, and the ladies had been there to see it.  The good Bruntons had moved most of their things into the room to which they had themselves migrated.  In their stead were other things which Langholm had unearthed from the lumber in his upper story, dusted, and carried down and up with his own hands.  Thus at the bedside stood a real Chippendale table, with a real Delft vase upon it, filled with such roses as had survived the rain.  A drop of water had been spilt upon the table from the vase, and there was something almost fussy in the way that Langholm removed it with his handkerchief.

“Oh,” said Severino, “she quite fell in love with the table you found for me, and Mrs. Woodgate wanted the vase.  They were wondering if Mrs. Brunton would accept a price.”

“They don’t belong to Mrs. Brunton,” said Langholm, shortly.

“No?  Mrs. Woodgate said she had never noticed them in your room.  Where did you pick them up?”

Langholm looked at the things, lamps of remembrance alight beneath his lowered eyelids.  “The table came from a little shop on Bushey Heath, in Hertfordshire, you know.  We—­I was spending the day there once ... you had to stoop to get in at the door, I remember.  The vase is only from Great Portland Street.”  The prices were upon his lips; both had been bargains, a passing happiness and pride.

“I must remember to tell them when they come to-morrow,” said Severino.  “They are the sort of thing a woman likes.”

“They are,” agreed Langholm, his lowered eyes still lingering on the table and the vase “the sort of thing a woman likes ...  So these women are coming again to-morrow, are they?”

The question was quite brisk, when it came.

“Yes, they promised.”

“Both of them, eh?”

“Yes, I hope so!” The sick man broke into eager explanations.  “I only want to see her, Langholm!  That’s all I want.  I don’t want her to myself.  What is the good?  To see her and be with her is all I want—­ever.  It has made me so happy.  It is really better than if she came alone.  You see, as it is, I can’t say anything—­that matters.  Do you see?”