THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"Only nothing now matters?"
She looked at him a minute as if he were the fact itself that he expressed. "Then you know?"
"Is she dying?" he asked for all answer.
Mrs. Stringham waited—her face seemed to sound him. Then her own reply was strange. "She hasn't so much as named you. We haven't spoken."
"Not for three days?"
"No more," she simply went on, "than if it were all over. Not even by the faintest allusion."
"Oh," said Densher with more light, "you mean you haven't spoken about me."
"About what else? No more than if you were dead."
"Well," he answered after a moment, "I am dead."
"Then I am," said Susan Shepherd with a drop of her arms on her waterproof.
It was a tone that, for the minute, imposed itself in its dry despair; it represented, in the bleak place, which had no life of its own, none but the life Kate had left—the sense of which, for that matter, by mystic channels, might fairly be reaching the visitor—the very impotence of their extinction. And Densher had nothing to oppose it, nothing but again: "Is she dying?"
It made her, however, as if these were crudities, almost material pangs, only say as before: "Then you know?"
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