A slow wave of happiness crept into his eyes. “You’re a good girl, Ruthie. You mustn’t cry for me.”
She brushed her sleeve across her eyes. “Why did you do it?” she asked almost fiercely. “Why did you let him get at you?”
“You’ve been hating me, Ruthie,” he told her gently. “Why do you cry for me?”
“Oh,” she told him, “I don’t hate you now. I don’t hate you now.”
He said weakly, “You’ve reason to hate me.”
“No, no!” she said. “Don’t be unhappy. You never meant—you loved Mary.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “I loved Mary. I loved Mary, and John loves you.”
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, John standing beside her; but she did not look up at him. Her eyes were all for Evered.
“Please,” she said. “Rest. Let me get the doctor.”
His head moved slowly in negation. “Something to tell you, Ruth, first—before the doctor comes.”