“Madge, are you still there?” he said quickly.
She took his hand.
“Yes, dear, sitting by you,” she said. “I shall always be here whenever you want me.”
Then came the staccato voice again.
“But why can’t I see you?” he asked. “What’s this over my face?”
Again she gently pulled back his other hand, which was feeling the bandages with quick, hovering movements like the antennæ of some insect.
“You were hurt, dear, you know,” she said. “They had to bandage your face, over your forehead and your eyes.”
Again there was silence; his mind was beginning to move more quickly, remembrance was pouring in from all sides.
“It was at Glen—Glen something, where we came by a night train, and you flirted with a valet,” he said.
“Yes, dear, Glen Callan,” said Madge quietly. But her eyes yearned and devoured him: all her heart was ready now, when the time came, to spring towards him, enfolding him with love.