She was too anxious for that, so they sat waiting, for hours as it seemed. Now and again they talked, but most of the time absorbed and troubled thought held them silent. No sound came from the next room. Presently its quiet was broken by the monotonous drone of a man’s voice. Alexandra sat up, listening. "Who is that?" she asked. "The priest. He’s with her." Twice they heard a faint murmur mingled with a low intoning. Another half-hour passed. Then the priest came noiselessly into the room. He drew Chalfont on one side and they spoke together in whispers. Presently the latter beckoned to Alexandra. "Come," he said; and the three went into the sick room. A light, carefully screened, threw the bed in shadow, but not sufficiently to hide the still form that lay upon it. Although the pallor of death was in Mrs. Lambert’s face, it seemed to have grown youthful. She looked like a child asleep. Her eyes were closed. They could not tell whether she was aware of their presence or not. The priest stood at the foot of the bed lost in prayer. The nurses, still and white like statues, watched from a distance. Chalfont, kneeling with a hand laid gently on that of the woman he loved, broke the long silence. "Speak to us," he implored. She heard his voice and opened her eyes. They had a spectral look, and as she turned them from him to Alexandra an expression of concern crept into her face. She murmured something faintly. "Your husband will be here in the morning, dearest," he said softly but distinctly, trying to stimulate her to consciousness. Some weighty thought was affecting her mind. Her eyes were on Chalfont. She seemed to be making an effort to say something. "That poor girl ... that nice girl..." Chalfont bent low, fearful of losing the whispered words. "What poor girl, dear?" They thought she said "Maggy." Lambert arrived at six the next morning. His first concern was to explain breathlessly to Alexandra that he had been detained ... a business matter ... farewell supper.... She would understand.... He had hardly had three hours’ sleep before starting. Chalfont and Alexandra could not help exchanging an outraged glance. When she told him that he had come too late his weak mouth opened in surprise. Then his features worked unpleasantly. He stood stupidly, looking as though he were about to burst into tears. Chalfont’s tolerance was near its limit. With a set face he indicated the closed door. "In there," he said. Lambert hesitated. "Do you not want to see her?" Chalfont’s voice was like steel. It only wanted the point-blank demand to unnerve Lambert completely. He collapsed into a chair. It would have been difficult to recognize his huddled figure as that of the debonair stage-gallant so familiar and so dear to a host of infatuated theater-goers. "Do you not want to see her?" Chalfont repeated remorselessly. Lambert’s face was lowered. When he looked up cowardice transfigured it.