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By Root 9343 0

his ambitions. It was as close as Dick had ever come to comprehending such a character from any but the pathological angle—he gathered that this very charm made it possible for Francisco to perpetrate his outrages, and, for Dick, charm always had an independent existence, whether it was the mad gallantry of the wretch who had died in the clinic this morning, or the courageous grace which this lost young man brought to a drab old story. Dick tried to dissect it into pieces small enough to store away—realizing that the totality of a life may be different in quality from its segments, and also that life during the forties seemed capable of being observed only in segments. His love for Nicole and Rosemary, his friendship with Abe North, with Tommy Barban in the broken universe of the war’s ending—in such contacts the personalities had seemed to press up so close to him that he became the personality itself—there seemed some necessity of taking all or nothing; it was as if for the remainder of his life he was condemned to carry with him the egos of certain people, early met and early loved, and to be only as complete as they were complete themselves. There was some element of loneliness involved—so easy to be loved—so hard to love.

As he sat on the veranda with young Francisco, a ghost of the past swam into his ken. A tall, singularly swaying male detached himself from the shrubbery and approached Dick and Francisco with feeble resolution. For a moment he formed such an apologetic part of the vibrant landscape that Dick scarcely remarked him—then Dick was on his feet, shaking hands with an abstracted air, thinking, “My God, I’ve stirred up a nest!” and trying to collect the man’s name.

“This is Doctor Diver, isn’t it?”

“Well, well—Mr. Dumphry, isn’t it?”

“Royal Dumphry. I had the pleasure of having dinner one night in that lovely garden of yours.”

“Of course.” Trying to dampen Mr. Dumphry’s enthusiasm, Dick went into impersonal chronology. “It was in nineteen—twenty-four—or twenty-five—”

He had remained standing, but Royal Dumphry, shy as he had seemed at first, was no laggard with his pick and spade; he spoke to Francisco in a flip, intimate manner, but the latter, ashamed of him, joined Dick in trying to freeze him away.

“Doctor Diver—one thing I want to say before you go. I’ve never forgotten that evening in your garden—how nice you and your wife were. To me it’s one of the finest memories in my life, one of the happiest ones. I’ve always thought of it as the most civilized gathering of people that I have ever known.”

Dick continued a crab-like retreat toward the nearest door of the hotel.

“I’m glad you remembered it so pleasantly. Now I’ve got to see—”

“I understand,” Royal Dumphry pursued sympathetically. “I hear he’s dying.”

“Who’s dying?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that—but we have the same physician.”

Dick paused, regarding him in astonishment. “Who’re you talking about?”

“Why, your wife’s father—perhaps I—”

“My WHAT?”

“I suppose—you mean I’m the first person—”

“You mean my wife’s father is here, in Lausanne?”

“Why, I thought you knew—I thought that was why you were here.”

“What doctor is taking care of him?”

Dick scrawled the name in a notebook, excused himself, and hurried to a telephone booth.

It was convenient for Doctor Dangeu to see Doctor Diver at his house immediately.

Doctor Dangeu was a young Génevois; for a moment he was afraid that he was going to lose a profitable patient, but, when Dick reassured him, he divulged the fact that Mr. Warren was indeed dying.

“He is only fifty but the liver has stopped restoring itself; the precipitating factor is alcoholism.”

“Doesn’t respond?”

“The man can take nothing except liquids—I give him three days, or at most, a week.”

“Does his elder daughter, Miss Warren, know his condition?”

“By his own wish no one knows except the man-servant. It was only this morning I felt I