"It is time that it ceased to be strange," she returned. "We must try before you go to make you more accustomed to being looked after a little."
He returned her kind look with a grateful smile.
"You are too generous," he said. "I must not trespass on your good-nature. I think that I could manage to get back to Boston to-day if the trains are running."
"The trains are running, but that is no reason why you should think of running too. We mean to mend you before we let you go."
"But"—
"There is no 'but' about it," Mrs. Morison declared, speaking more seriously. "Berenice and I have settled it, and we are accustomed to having our own way. You are selfish to wish that we should be left with all the obligation on our shoulders."
"Obligation?" repeated he. "How on earth is there any obligation but mine?"
"Do you think that there is no obligation in owing to you Bee's life?"
He stared at her in complete confusion. He made a vain effort to recall clearly what had happened in the car. He remembered the crash, the din, the pain, the horrible clutch on his arm, the choking reek of the smoke, his frantic fear for Berenice, but all these things seemed blurred in his mind like a landscape obscured by a night-fog. Only one memory stood out clear and sharp; that was the joy of holding Berenice clasped in his arms, and of thinking that they would die together. He felt the blood mount in his cheek at the thought, and he hastened to speak, lest his hostess should divine what was in his mind.
"Why do you say that?" he asked. "It was not I that saved her. I was not even conscious when she was taken out."