“It may mean some spiritual danger, Pen, from selfishness or want of faith or—or something like that,” he suggested. “I guess I am selfish and impatient—don't you think so?”
“Impatient, Chris?”
“I mean impatient for you to get well, impatient to take you far away from all these doctors and dreams, and just have you to myself. That isn't very wicked, is it, sweetheart?”
He stroked her hand fondly and looked deep into her wonderful eyes. Penelope sighed.
“I—I suppose it will all be over soon—I mean we shall know what's going to happen, won't we?”
It was her first open reference to the peril hanging over them, and again, involuntarily, she glanced at the clock. Five minutes to twelve! It was really twenty-five minutes past twelve!—but she did not know that.
“Darling, I don't believe anything is going to happen. Our troubles are over. You are guarded by this beautiful love—all these prayers. I've been saying prayers, myself, Pen—for both of us.”
“Dear boy!”
“I want you to promise me one thing—you love me, don't you? No matter what happens, you love me?”
Her eyes glowed on him.