Last thing I've ever wanted in a woman, but there it is, no getting away from it, she's good, and it makes me feel like a worm.
Surprises you, I suppose?'
'Not a bit,' said Ashenden.
'You're not the first rake who's fallen to innocence.
It's merely the sentimentality of middle age.'
'Dirty dog,' laughed Templeton.
'What does she say to it?'
'Good God, you don't suppose I've told her.
I've never said a word to her that I wouldn't have said before anyone else.
I may be dead in six months, and besides, what have I got to offer a girl like that?'
Ashenden by now was pretty sure that she was just as much in love with Templeton as he was with her.
He had seen the flush that coloured her cheeks when Templeton came into the dining-room and he had noticed the soft glance she gave him now and then when he was not looking at her.
There was a peculiar sweetness in her smile when she listened to him telling some of his old experiences.
Ashenden had the impression that she basked comfortably in his love as the patients on the terrace, facing the snow, basked in the hot sunshine; but it might very well be that she was content to leave it at that, and it was certainly no business of his to tell Templeton what perhaps she had no wish that he should know.
Then an incident occurred to disturb the monotony of life.
Though McLeod and Campbell were always at odds they played bridge together because, till Templeton came, they were the best players in the sanatorium.
They bickered incessantly, their post-mortems were endless, but after so many years each knew the other's game perfectly and they took a keen delight in scoring off one another.
As a rule Templeton refused to play with them; though a fine player he preferred to play with Ivy Bishop, and McLeod and Campbell were agreed on this, that she ruined the game. She was the kind of player who, having made a mistake that lost the rubber, would laugh and say: Well, it only made the difference of a trick.
But one afternoon, since Ivy was staying in her room with a headache, Templeton consented to play with Campbell and McLeod.
Ashenden was the fourth.
Though it was the end of March there had been heavy snow for several days, and they played, in a veranda open on three sides to the wintry air, in fur coats and caps, with mittens on their hands.
The stakes were too small for a gambler like Templeton to take the game seriously and his bidding was overbold, but he played so much better than the other three that he generally managed to make his contract or at least to come near it. But there was much doubling and redoubling.
The cards ran high, so that an inordinate number of small slams were bid; it was a tempestuous game, and McLeod and Campbell lashed one another with their tongues.
Half-past five arrived and the last rubber was started, for at six the bell rang to send everyone to rest.
It was a hard-fought rubber, with sets on both sides, for McLeod and Campbell were opponents and each was determined that the other should not win.
At ten minutes to six it was game all and the last hand was dealt.
Templeton was McLeod's partner and Ashenden Campbell's.
The bidding started with two clubs from McLeod; Ashenden said nothing; Templeton showed that he had substantial help, and finally McLeod called a grand slam.
Campbell doubled and McLeod redoubled.
Hearing this, the players at other tables who had broken off gathered round and the hands were played in deadly silence to a little crowd of onlookers. McLeod's face was white with excitement and there were beads of sweat on his brow.
His hands trembled.
Campbell was very grim. McLeod had to take two finesses and they both came off.
He finished with a squeeze and got the last of the thirteen tricks.
There was a burst of applause from the onlookers. McLeod, arrogant in victory, sprang to his feet.
He shook his clenched fist at Campbell.
'Play that off on your blasted fiddle,' he shouted.
'Grand slam doubled and redoubled.
I've wanted to get it all my life and now I've got it.
By God.
By God.'
He gasped.
He staggered forward and fell across the table.
A stream of blood poured from his mouth.
The doctor was sent for.
Attendants came.
He was dead.
He was buried two days later, early in the morning so that the patients should not be disturbed by the sight of a funeral.
A relation in black came from Glasgow to attend it.
No one had liked him.
No one regretted him.