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But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious. Stanley in person. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand.
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