"Georgian!"
It was a cry of infinite protest. Such a cry as one might expect from the long-suffering Ransom. It drew her from the door; it brought her to his side. As their eyes and hands met, Harper stepped back to the bedside, and remembering the sensitiveness of the man before him, softly covered his poor face. When he turned back, Mrs. Ransom was slowly shaking her head under her husband's prolonged look and saying softly:
"No, not Georgian, Anitra. Henceforth Anitra, always Anitra. Can you endure the ordeal for the sake of the safety and peace of mind it will bring?"
"I endure it! Can you? Remember the deafness that marks Anitra."
"That can be cured." Her smile turned almost arch. "We will travel; there are great physicians abroad."
"A sister—not a wife?"
"Your wife in time—Ah, it will mean a new courtship and—Anitra is a different woman from Georgian—she has suffered—you will love her better."
"O God! Harper, are we living, awake, sane? Help me at this crisis. I do not know where I am or what this is she really asks."
"She asks the impossible. She asks what you can, perhaps, give, but not what I can. You forget that this deception calls for connivance on my part, and whatever you may think of me or my profession, deception is foreign to my nature and very repugnant to me."
"And you refuse?"