will be in bed several days yet?"
"Probably. She might be able to sit up an hour or two the day after to-morrow—in her own room."
"It wouldn't do for me to see her?"
"I think not. She is very weak. No, you must act on your own responsibility."
He and the nurse had breakfast together, talking with the freedom of old friends. He told her all he knew of the Akeds, not forgetting to mention that Mr. Aked and himself were to have collaborated in a book. When Richard let this out, she showed none of those signs of timid reverence which the laity are wont to exhibit in the presence of literary people.
"Indeed!" she said politely, and then after a little pause: "I actually write verses myself sometimes."
"You do? And are they published?"
"Oh, yes, but perhaps not on their merits. You see, my father has influence—"
"A journalist, is he, perhaps?"
She laughed at the idea, and mentioned the name of a well-known novelist.
"And you prefer nursing to writing!" Richard ejaculated when he had recovered from the announcement.
"To anything in the world. That is why I am a nurse. Why should I depend on my father, or my father's reputation?"
"I admire you for not doing so," Richard replied. Hitherto he had only read about such women, and had questioned if they really existed. He grew humble before her, recognising a stronger spirit. Yet her self-reliance somehow chafed him, and he directed his thoughts to Adeline's feminine trustfulness with a slight sense of relief.
* * * * *
The funeral took place on Sunday. Richard found the formalities to be fewer and simpler than he had expected, and no difficulties arose of any kind. Mrs. Hopkins, as Adeline had foreseen, was unable to come, but she sent a long letter full of advice, and offering her niece a temporary home. Adeline had not yet been allowed to leave her bed, but on the Sunday morning the nurse had said that she might sit up for an hour or two in the afternoon, and would like to see Richard then.
He returned to Carteret Street on foot when the funeral was over.
"You are glad it is all finished?" the nurse said.
"Yes," he answered a little wearily. His mind had dwelt on Mr. Aked that day, and the lonely futility of the man's life had touched him with chill, depressing effect. Moreover, now it came to the point, he rather dreaded than desired that first interview with Adeline after her uncle's death. He feared that despite any service he had rendered, they were not much more than acquaintances. He morbidly conjectured what she would say to him and how he would reply. But he was glad when the nurse left him alone at the door of Adeline's room. He knocked rather louder than he had intended, and after hesitating a second walked in. Adeline was seated in an armchair near the window, fully dressed in black, with a shawl over her shoulders. Her back was towards him, but he could see that she was writing a letter on her knee. She looked round suddenly as the door opened, and gave a little "Oh!" at the same time lifting her hands. Her face was pale, her hair flat, and her eyes large and glittering. He went up to her.
"Mr. Larch!" She held his hand in her thin white one with a soft, weak pressure, silently gazing at him while tears gathered in her upturned eyes. Richard trembled in every part of his body; he could not speak, and wondered what was the matter with him.
"Mr. Larch, you have been very kind. I shall never be able to thank you."
"I hope you won't bother about any thanks," he said. "Are you better?" And yet he wished her to say more.
With apparent reluctance she loosed his hand, and he sat down near her.
"What should I have done without you!... Tell me about to-day. You can't think how relieved I am now that it is over—the funeral, I mean."
He said there was nothing to tell.
"Were there many other funerals?"
"Yes, a lot."
He answered her questions one after another; she seemed to be interested in the least detail, but neither of them mentioned the dead man. Her eyes seldom left him. When he suggested that she must dismiss him as soon as she felt tired, she laughed, and replied that she was not likely to be tired for a very long while, and that he must have tea with her and nurse.
"I was writing to my two uncles in San Francisco when you came in," she said. "They will be terribly upset about me at first, poor fellows, but I have told them how kind you have been, and Uncle Mark always used to say I had plenty of sense, so that ought to ease their minds." She smiled.
"Of course you have made no definite plans yet?" he asked.
"No, I sha'n't settle anything at present. I want to consult you about several things, but some other time, when I am better. I shall have enough money, I think—that is one solid comfort. My aunt Grace—Mrs. Hopkins—has asked me to go and stay with her. Somehow I don't want to go—you'll think it queer of me, I daresay, but I would really prefer to stop in London."
He noticed that she said nothing as to joining her uncles in San Francisco.
"I fancy I shall like London," she went on, "when I know it."
"You aren't thinking, then, of going to San Francisco?"
He waited apprehensively for her answer. She hesitated. "It is so far—I don't quite know how my uncles are situated—"
Evidently, for some reason, she had no desire to leave London immediately. He was very content, having feared that she might pass at once away from him.
They had tea on a little round chess-table. The cramped space and the consequent necessity of putting spare plates of cake on the bed caused some amusement, but in the presence of the strong, brusque nurse Adeline seemed to withdraw within herself, and the conversation, such as it was, depended on the other two.
"I have been telling Miss Aked," the nurse said after tea was over, "that she must go to the seaside for a week or two. It will do her an immense deal of good. What she needs most of all is change. I suggested Littlehampton; it is rather a quiet spot, not too quiet; there is nice river scenery, and a quaint old port, and quantities of lovely rustic villages in the neighbourhood."
"It would certainly be a good thing," Richard agreed; but Adeline said, rather petulantly, that she did not wish to travel, and the project was not discussed further.
He left soon afterwards. The walk home seemed surprisingly short, and when he got to Raphael Street he could remember nothing of the thoroughfares through which he had passed. Vague, delicious fancies flitted through his head, like fine lines half recalled from a great poem. In his room there was a smell from the lamp, and the windows were shut tight.
"Poor old landlady," he murmured benignantly, "when will she learn to leave the windows open and not to turn down the lamp?"
Having unfastened one of the windows, he extinguished the lamp and went out on to the little balcony. It was a warm evening, with a cloudy sky and a gentle, tepid breeze. The noise of omnibuses and cabs came even and regular from Brompton Road, and occasionally a hansom passed up Raphael Street. He stood leaning on the front of the balcony till the air of traffic had declined to an infrequent rumble,
