He drew his fingers out as though they had touched fire, and glanced up hurriedly at me.
"You don't know what a coward it makes of a man," he sighed. "You're making it harder for me. You're killing hope. A dangerous experiment with a patient like me. There's only a very short bridge between me and the past."
"A bridge you will never recross," I said, firmly.
He looked up and met my eyes. "Not if you'll stand between it and me, and help me a bit now and then. I'm going to play my part—but you mustn't kill my hopes, you know!"
"I shall help you all I can, because you cannot help me unless you do play it."
He frowned. "I'll play it, if it's only to help you. What is it you want?"
"A thing that may be very hard to do."
"I'll do it. I swear that. It will be an incentive to feel I can help you. It gives me a glimmer of hope again and strength, the mere thought of it. You don't know how I'd like to please you."
For a moment I was silent; and in the pause, my ears, which are very quick, caught a sound which made my heart beat rapidly. The faint crunch of a footstep on the gravel outside the window.
He heard nothing, but saw the start I gave. "Why did you start?"