THE AMERICAN
"But since she did—!"
"Well, since she did—after she did—they found, as I understand, that they could n't."
Valentin lay staring—his flush died away. "Don't tell me any more. I'm ashamed."
"You? You're the soul of honour," said Newman very simply.
Valentin groaned and averted his head. For some time nothing more was said. Then he turned back again and found a certain force to press Newman's arm. "It's very bad—very bad. When my people—when my 'race'—come to that, it is time for me to pass away. I believe in my sister; she 'll explain. Pardon her, allow for her, be patient with her; wait for that. If she can't—if she can't make her conduct clear: well, forgive her somehow; at any rate don't curse her. She'll pay—she has paid; with her one chance of happiness. But for the others it's very bad—very bad. You take it very hard? No, it's a shame to make you say so." He closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt almost awed; he had stirred his companion to depths down into which he now shrank from looking. Presently Valentin fixed him again, releasing his arm. "I apologise. Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologise for my family. For my mother. For my brother. For the name I was proud of. Voilà!" he added softly.
Newman for all answer took his hand and kept it in his own. He remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor noiselessly returned. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the
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