odours which she detested. Clusters of white violets and stalks of tuberoses filled vases which stood on every available flat surface. The Countess, wasted by age and disease, lay on the bed. Her hair, usually so carefully arranged by the hairdresser, was combed straight back and bound loosely. Her eyes now stared unseeingly, now burned with a fierce and penetrating concentration on the object towards which they were directed. Her false teeth had been removed and, as a consequence, her cheeks were sunken hollows. When she saw Compaspe the old woman burst into tears. The nurse was right: it was horrible!
Why didn't you let me know that you were ill? Campaspe demanded.
I didn't want to bother you, Campaspe, the dying woman gasped. At first it was difficult to comprehend her, as her articulation was much affected by her lack of teeth. I didn't believe I was very sick, and I didn't want to bother you. . . . One long, bony claw clutched convulsively at the bed-covering. . . . Now I am no worse, no worse . . . Her voice rose to a shrill shriek which indicated that she would brook no denial . . . but I am so lonely, so lonely. . . . She was whimpering . . . I want a priest, and where is my sister Lou?
Shall I send for her, Ella? Campaspe inquired.
Has no one sent for her, my sister Lou?
Seated before the desk, Campaspe removed a
