"No, no, don't leave me!"
"Certainly not, if you don't want me to. But you're quite safe now; you have nothing to be afraid of."
She leaned closer to him, trembling.
"No," the hoarse voice whispered, "that's not true. I'm not safe as long as I'm in the same house with him. He is afraid of me. He wants to keep me from talking. He will do anything to keep me quiet, anything. He's only waiting for his chance."
A violent tremor seized her so that her teeth chattered. With his arm about her Roger forced her gently to lie down, noting with growing alarm the fixed glitter of her eyes and the moisture standing in beads upon her forehead, above which her bronze hair ruffled in damp curls. All at once it had become appallingly easy to believe that she was suffering from the delusion of persecution, that her brain, somehow disordered, had fabricated a whole history of terror. Sick at heart he yet recalled the doctor's counsel against allowing her to excite herself.
"Esther, dear," he said soothingly. "You must keep quite quiet and trust to me. Remember your nerves are bound to be upset after all that morphia you have had. You know that."
He stopped, afraid that he had said the wrong thing, but she only frowned thoughtfully as though considering his words.
"Morphia," she repeated to herself. "Yes, I suppose that is what it was. No wonder I feel queer…. And then of course I haven't had anything to eat for two days and a half—that makes it worse."
"Two days and a half!"
He stared at her aghast. This last speech of hers sounded amazingly rational. He burned to question her, yet dared not attempt it.