I suddenly felt the longing for a sign, if only of courtesy, if only for the sake of the woman I loved, who knelt in front of me, praying, I knew, for a sign. It seemed so small a thing that was asked, the bare acknowledgement of a present, a nod in the crowd. I prayed more simply; ‘God forgive him his sins’ and ‘Please God, make him accept your forgiveness.’

So small a thing to ask.

The priest took the little silver box from his pocket and spoke again in Latin, touching the dying man with an oily wad; he finished what he had to do, put away the box and gave the final blessing. Suddenly Lord Marchmain moved his hand to his forehead; I thought he had felt the touch of the chrism and was wiping it away. ‘O God,’ I prayed, ‘don’t let him do that.’ But there was no need for fear; the hand moved slowly down his breast, then to his shoulder, and Lord Marchmain made the sign of the cross. Then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing, not a passing nod of recognition, and a phrase came back to me from my childhood of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.

It was over; we stood up; the nurse went back to the oxygen cylinder; the doctor bent over his patient. Julia whispered to me: ‘Will you see Father Mackay out? I’m staying here for a little.’

Outside the door Father Mackay became the simple, genial man I had known before. ‘Well, now, and that was a beautiful thing to see. I’ve known it happen that way again and again. The devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him. You’re not a Catholic I think, Mr Ryder, but at least you’ll be glad for the ladies to have the comfort of it.’

As we were waiting for the chauffeur, it occurred to me that Father Mackay should be paid for his services. I asked him awkwardly. ‘Why, don’t think about it, Mr Ryder. It was a pleasure,’ he said, ‘but anything you care to give is useful in a parish like mine.’ I found I had three pounds in my note-case and gave them to him. ‘Why, indeed, that’s more than generous. God bless you, Mr Ryder. I’ll call again, but I don’t think the poor soul has long for this world.’

Julia remained in the Chinese drawing-room until, at five o’clock that evening, her father died, proving both sides right in the dispute, priest and doctor.

—

Thus I come to the broken sentences which were the last words spoken between Julia and me, the last memories.

When her father died Julia remained some minutes with his body; the nurse came to the next room to announce the news and I had a glimpse of her through the open door, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and of Cara sitting by her. Presently the two women came out together, and Julia said to me: ‘Not now; I’m just taking Cara up to her room; later.’