Book 3 Chapter 4

Only once Cheniston roused himself sufficiently to hold a few minutes' laboured conversation with Anstice; and afterwards the latter was not perfectly certain of Bruce's complete understanding of the words he used.

"Iris--how is she?" His voice was so weak that Anstice could barely hear it; but he guessed what it was that the other man wished to ask; and answered at once: "Mrs. Cheniston is quite well--only a little tired. She is lying down for an hour, but if you want her I'll go and call her."

"No. Don't disturb her," said Bruce feebly; and then, after a pause, he uttered the words which, later, seemed to Anstice a reflection on his perfect mental poise at the moment. "Poor little Iris--it wasn't fair to marry her--I wish to God I'd left her--to you."

For a minute Anstice sat silent, absolutely stunned by this extraordinary statement; and before he could speak the weak voice began again.

"You loved her--so did I--in a way--but I've never really loved anyone--but--Hilda Ryder." The unconscious pathos in his tone robbed the words of all offence. "But she's a dear little soul--Iris--and I only wish I'd not been beast enough--to marry her--to spite you----" The thin voice trailed away into a whisper and Anstice spoke resolutely.

"See here, Cheniston, you're ill and you don't know what you're saying. Don't talk any more, there's a good chap. You only tire yourself out to no purpose."