'But I want one. It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Just one. It's my night.'
'It's mine—too. My sixty-fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh.' He shut his lips firmly against the tide of visualised numbers that threatened to carry him along.
'Ah, it's only my thirty-ninth.' She paused as he had done. 'I wonder if I shall last into the sixties. . . . Talk to me or I shall go crazy. You're a man. You're the stronger vessel. Tell me when you went to pieces.'
'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—eight—I beg your pardon.'
'Not in the least. I always pretend I've dropped a stitch of my knitting. I count the days till the last day, then the hours, then the minutes. Do you?'
'I don't think I've done very much else for the last' said Conroy, shivering, for the night was cold, with a chill he recognised.
'Oh, how comforting to find some one who can talk sense! It's not always the same date, is it?'
'What difference would that make?' He unbuttoned his ulster with a jerk. 'You're a sane woman. Can't you see the wicked—wicked—wicked—' (dust flew from the padded arm-rest as he struck it) 'unfairness of it? What have Idone?'
She laid her large hand on his shoulder very firmly.
'If you begin to think over that,' she said, 'you'll go to pieces and be ashamed. Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine. Only be quiet—be quiet,
