She opened her eyes, looked at him drowsily and smiled. "Oh, Stevie, I'm so glad you came. I've been wanting you, darling."
Steven said, "Denise—"
She frowned. "Why do you call me that? Call me Denny. Did you get the part, darling?"
He drew back a little. "Yes, I got it."
She gave him a radiant smile. "That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you, Stevie." She slept again.
That night in the HYM dormitory Steven did not sleep. He lay quiet, tense, hoping for the relief of tears, but it did not come.
Steven went to see Denise every day though after the first time she was not awake to know him. The doctors were keeping her under sedation until the head bandage could be removed. So far as Denise was to know, she had gone to the hospital simply for a rather protracted appendectomy. Looking at her, Steven knew that he could never leave her. He had loved her completely; he would love her now with as much of himself as she would need or understand.
For a while he waited to be kindly questioned, to be thoroughly examined, to be tenderly given the shot in the arm and to awake like her, but nobody came. Denise had apparently said nothing about him. Some censor or other—perhaps it was the censor of love—had kept her from even saying his name.
For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some stubborn pride in him refused it.