“Dead!” repeated Norman, looking round vaguely.

He went on to the house, Pat walking beside him and chattering on and on—­a stream of words Norman did not hear.  As he entered the open front door Dorothy came down the stairs.  He had thought he knew how white her skin was.  But he did not know until then.  And from that ghostly pallor looked the eyes of grief beyond tears.  He advanced toward her.  But she seemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere of aloofness.  He felt himself a stranger and an alien.  After a brief silence she said:  “I don’t realize it.  I’ve been upstairs where Pat carried him—­but I don’t realize it.  It simply can’t be.”

“Do you know what he wished to say to me?” he asked.

“No.  I guess he felt this coming.  Probably it came quicker than he expected.  Now I can see that he hasn’t been well for several days.  But he would never let anything about illness be said.  He thought talking of those things made them worse.”

“You have relatives—­somebody you wish me to telegraph?”

She shook her head.  “No one.  Our relatives out West are second cousins or further away.  They care nothing about us.  No, I’m all alone.”

The tears sprang to his eyes.  But there were no tears in her eyes, no forlornness in her voice.  She was simply stating a fact.  He said:  “I’ll look after everything.  Don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

“No, I’ll arrange,” replied she.  “It’ll give me something to do—­something to do for him.  You see, it’s my last chance.”  And she turned to ascend the stairs.  “Something to do,” she repeated dully.  “I wish I hadn’t cleaned house this morning.  That would be something more to do.”

This jarred on him—­then brought the tears to his eyes again.  How childish she was!—­and how desolate!  “But you’ll let me stay?” he pleaded.  “You’ll need me.  At any rate, I want to feel that you do.”

“I’d rather you didn’t stay,” she said, in the same calm, remote way.  “I’d rather be alone with him, this last time.  I’ll go up and sit there until they take him away.  And then—­in a few days I’ll see what to do—­I’ll send for you.”

“I can’t leave you at such a time,” he cried.  “You haven’t realized yet.  When you do you will need some one.”

“You don’t understand,” she interrupted.  “He and I understood each other in some ways.  I know he’d not want—­anyone round.”

At her slight hesitation before “anyone” he winced.

“I must be alone with him,” she went on.  “Thank you, but I want to go now.”

“Not just yet,” he begged.  Then, seeing the shadow of annoyance on her beautiful white face, he rose and said:  “I’m going.  I only want to help you.”  He extended his hand impulsively, drew it back before she had the chance to refuse it.  For he felt that she would refuse it.  He said, “You know you can rely on me.”

“But I don’t need anybody,” replied she.  “Good-by.”