A smile came on his face; they heard him
whisper, "My darling!" Again it struck them both as a little strange
that he should call her that. But she smiled in answer and made him
drink again.
"Yes, you've won; you always win," they heard her whisper softly. She
had forgotten all now, except that he had won, that her faith stood
justified, and he lay half-dead from the work of vindicating it. At that
moment she would have been no man's if she could not be Alexander
Quisante's.
There was a knock at the door; Jimmy Benyon went and opened it; he came
back holding a note, and gave it to May; it was addressed to her husband
in a pencil scrawl. "A congratulation for you," she said to Quisante. He
glanced carelessly and languidly at it, murmuring, "Read it to me,
please," and she broke open the sealed envelope. Inside the writing was
as negligent a scribble as on the outside, the writing of a man in bed,
with a stump of pencil. Old Mr. Foster wrote better when he was up and
abroad, so much better that Quisante's tired eyes had not marked the
hand for his.
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