“My darling, my dear, my own!” she said. “You’re tired, and you’ve thought of nothing but your hateful book—your beautiful book, I mean—but you do love me really. Not as I love you, but still you do love me. Oh, Rupert, I’ll nurse you, I’ll take care of you, I’ll be your slave; and if you have to die, I shall die too, because there’ll be nothing left for me to do for you.”
He put an arm round her. “It’s worth dying to hear that,” he said, and brought his face to lie against her waist.
“But you shan’t die. You must come back to London with me now—this minute. The best opinion——”
“I had the best,” he said. “Kiss me, my Pretty; oh, kiss me now that it does mean something! Let me dream that I’m going to live, and that you love me.”
He lifted his face, and she kissed him.
“Rupert, you’re not going to die. It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It shan’t be true.”
“It is; but I don’t mind now, except for you. I’m a selfish beast. But this is worth it all, and I have done something great. You told me to.”
“Tell me,” she said, “who was the doctor? Was he really the best?”
“It was Strongitharm,” he said wearily.
She drew a long breath and clasped him closer. Then she pushed him away and sprang to her feet.