Smilingly fastening an orchid of an
indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life,
he looked down upon the sleeper. Then he passed his hand over Ernest's
forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. At the touch of his hand the
boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched
in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anaesthetic,
without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that
separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the
other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then
another. Finally the babbling became articulate.
"For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!"
And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed
to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of
culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand
from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open
door.
Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke.
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