“Are you going away, then?” He had not dared, somehow, to ask her before. He felt now that he could not talk until he knew.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I shall be going soon. The hospital is emptying and my nights on duty are very short. I have, really, only you and two others to take care of. That’s why I am up so early to-day. And you are so much better that we can have a little talk; if you have anything to ask me.”
“It’s this, of course,” said Oldmeadow. “It seems to me you ought to dislike me. I misunderstood you in many ways. And now I owe you my life. Before we part I want to thank you and to ask you to forgive me.”
Her eyes, seen in daylight, were of the colour of distance, of arctic distances. That had always been their colour, though he had never before identified it.
“But there is nothing to thank me for,” she said. “I am here to take care of people.”
“Even people who misunderstood you. Even people you dislike. I know.” He flushed, feeling that he had been duly snubbed. “But though you take care of everyone, anyone may thank you, too, mayn’t they?”
“I don’t dislike you, Mr. Oldmeadow,” she said after a moment. “And you didn’t misunderstand me.”
“Oh,” he murmured, more abashed than before. “I think so. Not, perhaps, what you did; but what you were. I didn’t see you as you really were. That’s what I mean.”
The perplexity, which had grown, even, to amazement, had left her eyes and she was intently looking at him. “There is nothing for you to be sorry for,” she said. “Nothing for me to forgive. You were always right.”
“Always right? I can’t take that, you know,” said Oldmeadow, deeply discomposed. “You were blind, of course, and more sure of yourself than any of us can safely afford to be; but I wasn’t always right.”