Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/215

 Opening the door of the Countess's apartment at the appointed time, the nurse drew it nearly closed behind her and stepped out into the corridor.

I am so glad that you could come, Mrs. Lorillard, she began. The Countess is dying. The doctor, who has just gone, informs me that there is no hope. Last night she seemed better and we thought there might be a chance, but that faded away at dawn. The Countess is very much concerned because the priest has not arrived. I have telephoned for him twice, and was told, the second time, that he had not yet left the house. I thought if you would sit with her for a few moments I would go to fetch him. Her maid left several days ago, fearing infection. You know how cowardly French maids are. The Countess's malady is not infectious. There is nothing to do but just sit with her. Perhaps she may ask for something. Give her anything she wants. It doesn't matter now: nothing can hurt her any longer. She is conscious, but slightly delirious: she suffers from curious delusions. You will not, I hope, she concluded, gazing searchingly at Campaspe, find it too horrible.

Shaking her head, Campaspe quickly agreed to substitute for the nurse at the bedside of the dying woman, and as Miss Cottrell adjusted a blue cloak over her white uniform, Campaspe passed on through the salon into the sick-chamber. An overpowering scent harassed her nostrils, a nauseating confusion of some disinfectant with two floral