Taquisara says that your maid brings them every morning. Thank you--of
course it is one of your endless kind doings."
"No," replied Veronica, frankly. "It is her way of showing her devotion,
poor thing! Everybody loves you in the house--even the people who have
hardly ever seen you. The women, speak of you as 'that angel'!" She
tried to laugh cheerfully.
"I am glad they like me, though I have done nothing to be liked by them.
Please thank your maid for me. It is very kind of her."
There was a little disappointment in his voice; for he had been happy in
believing that Veronica sent the flowers herself, not because he needed
coin of kindness to prove her wealth of friendship, but because whatever
small thing came from her hand had so much more value for him than the
greatest and most that any one else could give.
She sat down beside him, and endeavoured to talk as though she were
quite unconcerned. She tried not to look at his face, upon which it
seemed to her that death was already fixing the last mask of life's
comedy. It was the more terrible, because he was so quiet and so sure of
life that morning, so convinced that he was better, so almost certain
that he should get well.
It seemed an awful thing to sit there, talking against death; but she
did her best not to think, and only to talk and talk on, and make him
believe that she was cheerful, while, in a kind way, she kept him from
coming back to within a phrase's length of his love for her.
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