From his bed he could see on the opposite wall the picture Judith had given him, always so fresh and cool and dim with its deep restful tones of blue, of the herdsmen and the cattle on the dark mountain rim at dawn.  And vaguely he wondered whether it was because he saw more clearly, or whether his mind in this curious haze could no longer see so well, that as he looked before him he felt no fear nor any more uncertainty.  All his doubts had lifted, he was so sure of Judith now.  As though she were coming to meet him, her image grew more vivid, with memories emerging out of all the years gone by.  What memories, what vivid scenes!  What intimate conversations they had, her voice so natural, close in his ear, as together they planned for their children....  Wistfully he would search the years for what he should soon tell his wife—­until the drowsiness returned, and then again came visions.

But by day it was not so, for the life of the house would rouse him and at intervals hold his attention.

One evening a slight rustle, a faint fragrance in the room, made Roger suddenly open his eyes.  And he saw Laura by his bed, her slender figure clad in blue silk, something white at her full bosom.  He noticed her shapely shoulders, her glossy hair and moist red lips.  She was smiling down at him.

“See what I’ve brought you, dear,” she said.  And she turned to a chair where, one on the other, tray after tray, was piled his whole collection of rings.  At sight of them his eyes grew fixed; he could feel his pulse beat faster.

“How did you ever find them?” he asked his daughter huskily.

“Oh, I had a long hunt all by myself.  But I found them at last and I’ve brought them home.  Shall we look them over a little while?”

“Yes,” he said.  She turned up the light, and came and sat down at the bedside with a tray of rings in her lap.  One by one she held them up to his gaze, still smiling and talking softly on in that rich melodious voice of hers, of which he heard but snatches.  How good it felt to be so gay.  No solemn thoughts nor questionings, just these dusky glittering beauties here, deep soft gleams of color, each with its suggestion of memories for Roger, a procession of adventures reaching back into his life.  He smiled and lay in silence watching, until at last she bent over him, kissed him softly, breathed a good-night and went out of the room.  Roger followed her with his glance.  He knew he would never see her again.  How graceful of her to go like that.

He lay there thinking about her.  In her large blue limousine he saw his gay young daughter speeding up the Avenue, the purple gleaming pavement reflecting studded lines of lights.  And he thought he could see her smiling still.  He recalled scattered fragments of her life—­the first luxurious little menage, and the second.  How many more would there be?  She was only in her twenties still.  Uneasily he tried to see into the years ahead for her, and he thought he saw a lonely old age, childless, loveless, cynical, hard.  But this fear soon fell from his mind.  No, whatever happened, she would do it gracefully, an artist always, to the end.  He sighed and gave up the effort.  For he could not think of Laura as old, nor could he think of her any more as being a part of his family.