“Write,” she said, with her eyes shining.  “Let others play what you write.  Immortality comes by way of the printed page.”

“I couldn’t,” he returned, doubtfully.

“I never composed anything except two or three little things that I never dared to play, even for encores.”

“Never say you can’t.  Say ‘I must,’ and ‘I will.’”

“You’re saying them for me.  You almost make me believe in myself.”

“That’s the very best of beginnings, isn’t it?”

She was quite calm now, outwardly, and she drew her hand away.  Allison remembered the long, happy hours they had spent together before Isabel came into his life.  Now that she was gone, the old comradeship had returned, the sweeter because of long absence.  Rose had never fretted nor annoyed him; she seemed always to understand.

“You don’t know how glad I’d be,” he sighed, “to feel that I wasn’t quite out of it—­that there was something in life for me still.  I didn’t want to be a bit of driftwood on the current of things.”

“You’re not going to be—­I won’t let you.  Haven’t you learned that sometimes we have to wait; that we can’t always be going on?  Just moor your soul at the landing place, and when the hour comes, you’ll swing out into the current again.  Much of the driftwood is only craft that broke away from the landing.”

He smiled, for her fancy pleased him.  An abiding sense of companionship crept into his loneliness; his isolation seemed to be shared.  “And you’ll stay at the landing with me,” he whispered, “until the time comes to set sail again?”

“Yes.”

“And—­after the worst that can come—­is over, we’ll make it right with the world and go abroad together?”

“Yes.”  Her voice was very low now.

“And we’ll be the best of friends, for always?”

“Yes—­the best of friends in all the world.”

“And you’ll promise me that, if you’re ever sorry, you’ll come straight and tell me—­that you’ll ask me to set you free?”

“I promise.”

“Then everything is all right between you and me?”

“Yes, but I’m ashamed—­bitterly ashamed.”

“You mustn’t be, for I’m very glad.  We’ll try to forget the wreckage together.  I couldn’t have asked, unless I had known about—­the other man, and you wouldn’t have told me, I know.  It wouldn’t have been like you to tell me.”

There was a knock, the door opened, and the nurse came in, watch in hand.  “I’m sorry, Miss Bernard, but you can come to-morrow if he’s well enough.”

“I’ll be well enough,” said Allison, smiling.

“Of course,” Rose assured him, shaking hands in friendly fashion.  “Don’t forget that it’s a secret.”

“I won’t.  Good-bye, Rose.”

When she had gone, the nurse studied him furtively, from across the room.  He had changed in some subtle way—­he seemed stronger than before.  Unless it was excitement, to be followed by a reaction, Miss Bernard had done him good.  The night would prove it definitely, one way or the other.