"Oh, hush! For pity's sake, hush!" she cried.
Then she laid her other hand upon his arm, which she already held.
"I have completely forgotten every word we have spoken to-night," she said.
The tone, the words, affected him like a sudden dash of ice-cold water. He strode on through the rain in silence, suddenly feeling now how his heart beat, and his blood rushed tingling through his veins. They had nearly reached Dr. Sanford's cottage when he spoke again.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "You were always too good to me. I think I have been out of my head to-night."
"Why shouldn't I be good to you?" she returned. "You have always been good to me. So old friends as we are don't need to apologize to each other. I dare say we all say foolish things sometimes."
He winced a little, but did not dissent. As they went up the path together between the dripping shrubs which glimmered in the light from the windows, they heard Will's voice.
"There is Will singing," Patty said. "He always sings when he has a headache. He insists that dying swans sing on account of the pain in their heads."
"That has been the trouble with me," Hazard answered, smiling faintly. "I've had my swan-song—unless you call it a hiss. But my pain was not in my head. Good-night."
"Ah!" Patty said to herself, looking after him, "the pain in your heart isn't sharper than in mine."