“I have everything safe enough,” answered Swithin, and in his sleep he groaned.
He felt the touch of fingers on his forehead. ‘I’m dreaming,’ he thought in his dream.
She had vanished; and far away, from behind the picture, came a sound of footsteps.
Aloud, in his sleep, Swithin muttered: “I’ve missed it.”
Again he heard the rustling of those light footsteps, and close in his ear a sound, like a sob. He awoke; the sob was his own. Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. ‘What is it?’ he thought; ’what have I lost?’ Slowly his mind travelled over his investments; he could not think of any single one that was unsafe. What was it, then, that he had lost? Struggling on his pillows, he clutched the wine-glass. His lips touched the wine. ‘This isn’t the “Heidseck"!’ he thought angrily, and before the reality of that displeasure all the dim vision passed away. But as he bent to drink, something snapped, and, with a sigh, Swithin Forsyte died above the bubbles....
When James Forsyte came in again on his way home, the valet, trembling took his hat and stick.
“How’s your master?”
“My master is dead, sir!”
“Dead! He can’t be! I left him safe an hour ago.”
On the bed Swithin’s body was doubled like a sack; his hand still grasped the glass.
James Forsyte paused. “Swithin!” he said, and with his hand to his ear he waited for an answer; but none came, and slowly in the glass a last bubble rose and burst.
MY SISTER MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS
In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for papers. The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brown face and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cutting slipped from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: ’How the dickens did that get in here?’ It was from a colonial print of three years back; and he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had encountered some ghost from his past.