He had never, indeed, been ignorant that his friend’s hold on life was precarious; some such scene as this had often been in his mind before; only, insensibly, Rainham’s own jesting attitude towards his disabilities had half imposed on him, and made that possibility appear intangible and remote.  But now, in view of the change which the last fortnight had wrought in him, he could cherish no illusions; the worst that was possible was all now that one could expect.  He was a charming, generous, clever fellow, and he was dying; that was a thing one could not get over.

He moved across to the bedside, and Rainham’s eyes suddenly opened.  They were immensely large, strangely brilliant; his face had fallen in, was so white and long and lean, that these tremendous eyes seemed almost all of the man that was still to be accounted.

Oswyn derived the impression from them that, while his friend’s body had been failing, his mind had never been more vigorous; that, during these long nights and days, when he had lain so motionless, in so continued a silence, it had only been because he was thinking with redoubled intensity.

Presently, as Rainham’s lips moved slightly, he drew nearer, and bent his head over him.

“Don’t talk,” he said nervously, as Rainham appeared to struggle with the difficulty of utterance; “don’t tire yourself.  I’ve only come to look at you.  Wait until you are a little stronger.”

Rainham raised his hand impatiently.

“It won’t tire me, and tired or not there are things I must speak of.  Is she in the room—­the nurse?”

He spoke slowly, and with a visible effort; but his voice, although it scarcely rose above a whisper, and seemed shadowy and far away, was deliberate and distinct.  Oswyn shook his head.

“She has given me half an hour; you must not abuse it.  I have promised to keep you quiet.  I really believe you are a little better.”

“I am well enough for what I want—­to talk to you.  After that, I will be as quiet as you like, for as long as you like.  Only I have been keeping myself for this all these last few days that I have lain here like a log, listening to the ticking of that merciless clock.  They thought I was sleeping, unconscious, very likely.  I have been collecting myself, thinking immensely, waiting for this.”

“I have always been here,” said the other simply, “in case you should send for me.  I have been painting Margot.  She is a dear little soul; she misses you sadly.”

“It is of her partly that I must speak.  I have left all I can to her.  If you will sometimes give her a thought; she is absolutely without belongings.  I don’t wish to make it a charge on you, a burden, only sometimes it has struck me lately that you were interested in the child, that you liked her, and I have taken the liberty of making you a sort of guardian.  She could live with the Bullens——­”