"Yes, I will tell him," said Sophy.
She went up to Cecil's room and approached the bed. He recognised her step instantly, and said in a weak voice:
"Sophy?"
"Yes, Cecil—it's Sophy."
"Nearer...." he murmured. "Come nearer...."
She bent down to him. The close, stale after-smell of fever reeked up to her from his unshaven face. She felt very pitiful towards him. All the hatred had ebbed from her heart. Yet she shrank from him; he was repellent to her. The conflict between repulsion and pity sent an inward tremor like sickness through her.
"Sophy ... what ... what did I do ... that night?" came the dragging voice.
Her hand clenched in the folds of her gown. He had taken the other and was fumbling it in his nerveless fingers.
"You were very excited. We'll talk of that later—when you're stronger."
"No ... now ... now. It hurts my head ... trying to work the damned thing out! Was I ... did I...?"