"At moments," she said, "I have an odd idea that it is real. I am not quite sure even now. Do you believe it is alive, Phil? Perhaps, at night, when I am asleep, it becomes alive. . . . This morning I awoke, laughing, laughing in delight--thinking I heard you laughing, too--as once--in the dusk where there were many roses and many stars--big stars, and very, very bright--I saw you--saw you--and the roses--" She paused with a pained, puzzled look of appeal. "Where was it, Phil?" "In Manila town." "Yes; and there were roses. But I was never there." "You came out on the veranda and pelted me with roses. There were others there--officers and their wives. Everybody was laughing." "Yes--but I was not there, Phil. . . . Who--who was the tall, thin bugler who sounded taps?" "Corrigan." "And--the little, girl-shaped, brown men?" "My constabulary." "I can't recollect," she said listlessly, laying the doll against her breast. "I think, Phil, that you had better be a little quiet now--she may wish to sleep. And I am sleepy, too," lifting her slender hand as a sign for him to take his leave. As he went out the nurse said: "If you wish to return to town, you may, I think. She will forget about you for two or three days, as usual. Shall I telegraph if she becomes restless?" "Yes. What does the doctor say to-day?" The slim nurse looked at him under level brows. "There is no change," she said. "No hope." It was not even a question. "No hope, Captain Selwyn." He stood silent, tapping his leg with the stiff brim of his hat; then, wearily: "Is there anything more I can do for her?" "Nothing, sir." "Thank you." He turned away, bidding her good-night in a low voice. * * * * * He arrived in town about midnight, but did not go to any of his clubs. At one of them a telegram was awaiting him; and in a dismantled and summer-shrouded house a young girl was still expecting him, lying with closed eyes in a big holland-covered arm-chair, listening to the rare footfalls in the street outside. But of these things he knew nothing; and he went wearily to his lodgings and climbed the musty stairs, and sat down in his old attitude before the table and the blank wall behind it, waiting for the magic frescoes to appear in all the vague loveliness of their hues and dyes, painting for him upon his chamber-walls the tinted paradise now lost to him for ever. CHAPTER XI HIS OWN WAY