The colour streamed across her cheek at these words, as though he had struck her.
"Forgive me," he said humbly. "I.... I really care, you know."
"He is better," she managed to reply. Her lips moved stiffly. Then she lifted her head with a sort of desperation of resolve. Her eyes fixed on his.
"Cecil...." she said, "I've come ... one, last time...." She broke off; then went on: "This one, last time," she repeated, "to see if you ... if we ... if together...." Again words failed her. Looking firmly at him, she ended more quietly: "I've come to beg you to tell me the truth," she said, and her dark eyes rested on him full of doubt and pain.
He could scarcely have grown paler, but his head drooped; he sat looking down at his great hands which he clasped and unclasped nervously.
"Well...." she whispered finally. "Will you?.... It's our last ... last chance."
With difficulty he articulated, "Try me."
"Then ..." she went on, after a slight pause, still whispering, "are you ... taking morphine again?"
There was no pause before his answer.
"Yes," he said, his face still drooped away from her.