Page:Twilight.djvu/362

 "She's gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! She's gone!" He lifted her up, laid her on the sofa, the smile was still on her face, she looked asleep. But Stevens was there and he had to dissimulate.

"She is unconscious. Get on to the telephone. Ask Dr. Lansdowne to come over."

Then he made a feint of trying remedies. Strychnine, more amyl, more brandy, artificial respiration. He was glad, glad, glad, exulting as the moments went on. He thanked God that she was at rest. "He giveth His beloved sleep." He called her beloved, whispered it in her ear when Stevens was summoning that useless help. He had sealed her to him, she was his woman now, and for ever. No self-righteous iceberg could hold and deny her.

"Sleep well, beloved," he whispered." Sleep well. Smile on me, smile your thanks."

He recovered himself with an immense, an incredible effort. He wanted to laugh, to exult, to call on the world to see his work, what he had done for her, how peaceful she was, and happy. He was as near madness as a sane man could be, but by the time his partner came he composed his face and spoke with professional gravity:

"I am afraid you are too late."

Dr. Lansdowne, hurrying in, wore his habitual grin.

"I always knew it would end like this. Didn't