His voice was no
longer husky, but clear and strong. His eyes were the eyes of a man who
sees a vision.
"Jove!" he said. "What a princely gathering to see me carry out my bat!
Don't grin, you fellows. I know it was a fluke--a dashed fine fluke,
too. But it's what I always meant, after all. There's good old Monty,
yelling himself hoarse in the pavilion. And his girl--waving. Sweet
girl, too--the best in the world. I might cut him out there. But I
won't, I won't! I'm not such a hound as that, though she's the only
woman in the world, bless her, bless her!"
He stopped. Durant was bending over him, listening eagerly, as one might
listen to the voice of an old, familiar friend, heard again after many
years.
He did not speak. He seemed afraid to dispel the other's dream. But
after a moment, the man in his arms made a sudden, impulsive movement
towards him. It was almost like a gesture of affection. And their eyes
met.
There followed a brief silence that had in it something of strain. Then
Ford uttered a shaky laugh. The vision had passed.
"So--you see--he had to die--anyhow," he said. "My love to--your wife,
dear old Monty! Tell her--I'm--awfully--pleased!"
His voice ceased, yet for a moment his lips still seemed to form words.
Durant stooped lower over him, and spoke at last with a sort of urgent
tenderness.
"Leo!" he said. "Leo, old chap!"
But there came no answer save a faint, still smile.
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