But I am not quite such a
cur as that."
"Oliver!" She slipped to her knees. "Oliver! don't send me away!" All
her being spoke in the words. Her dark head sank upon his shoulder, he
felt her fresh cheek against his. With a cry he pressed her to him.
"I am dying--and--I--I am weak," he said, incoherently. He raised her
hand as it lay across his breast and kissed it. Then he dropped it
despairingly.
"The awful thing is that when the pain comes I care about nothing--not
even you--_nothing_. And it's coming now. Go!--dearest. Good-night.
To-morrow!--Call my servant." And as she fled she heard a sound of
anguish that was like a sword in her own heart.
His servant hurried to him; in the passage outside Diana found Lady
Lucy. They went back to the sitting-room together.
"The morphia will ease him," said Lady Lucy, with painful composure,
putting her arm round the girl's shoulders. "Did he tell you he
was dying?"
Diana nodded, unable to speak.
"It may be so. But the doctors don't agree." Then with a manner that
recalled old days: "May I ask--I don't know that I have the right--what
he said to you?"
She had withdrawn her arm, and the two confronted each other.
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