Interest quickened. One might almost say that the agile, silken-clad legs of the dancer kicked Potter Waite out of the minds of his friends. Why not? They had pronounced his obituary. He had been and was not. Dancers must dance and cocktails must be mixed and the world must wag on as is its custom, though more important personages than a reckless, headstrong, purposeless boy be removed from the scene. Two weeks and three days passed over Potter's unconscious head. He did not know that his mother sat by his bedside through long days and slept in an adjoining room through sleepless, woeful nights. He did not know how much of the priceless time of his busy father was spent in that still room. Had he been conscious he might have understood something of his mother's agony, for, quiet, simple as she was, she had retained her turbulent son's affection. Perhaps she understood him. Assuredly she had never abandoned hope for him even when his wildest escapade was bruising her heart. But she had not been strong enough, forceful enough, to restrain him, and, realizing her limitation, she had grieved silently. In his most alert moment Potter could not have read Fabius Waite's mind. A tidal wave of business success had carried Fabius far away from his son, into a distant country. For a dozen years they had been growing farther and farther apart, each taking the other for granted, looking upon the other as something that was and could not be blinked. Fabius had no time for his son; Potter had no time for his father. They had no point of contact.... It was natural that Potter should now be unable to see into his father's heart and comprehend the love that had sprung to life again, the dull ache of self-accusation that would not be assuaged. He could not know that Fabius Waite was saying in his secret soul, "This is my son, my only son, and I have sinned against him." "Mother," said Fabius, that afternoon, and his voice was different from the voice with which he usually spoke, "this is my fault." She did not seek to comfort him by a denial. "We have both been to blame," she said, gently. Fabius was silent a moment; then he said, fiercely, "I've been a hell of a father...." She laid her hand on his knee and he placed his hand over it. Many years had passed since they had sat with hand touching hand.... The nurse sat looking from the window, her back to the bed. Suddenly a voice, yet not a voice so much as the ghost of a voice, spoke from the pillow. It was not a babble, not a mutter. It was a whisper directed by a mind. "Hello--folks!" it said. Father and mother were on their feet, bending over the bed. Their son had spoken; his eyes looked up at them, dim, but intelligently; their son whom famous surgeons had told them would never regain consciousness! "He knows us! He knows us!" his mother whispered. "Sure," Potter said. "What ..." Then he was gone again into that murky region which was not life and which was not death.