My body found a chair on which to seat itself.
At last I saw two eyes, full of remorse, looking at me from out of a little window made up by the bedclothes.
"Will you—will you ever forgive me?" she said, faintly.
"Forgive what?" said I. "You mustn't talk like that. Are you worrying yourself all these hours with the idea that you've got to find forgiveness? You'll never get well that way. Besides, what is there to forgive?"
"I'm in your bed," she whispered. "Where do you sleep?"
"Is that all!" said I, laughing. "Why, do you imagine that I'm one of those fussy beggars who can't turn in anywhere but to their own bed and their own pillow? It is comfortable though; isn't it?"
She nodded her head and squeezed down under the clothes. How could that devil ever have left her!
"But that's not all," she continued, presently, from the little hive of bedclothes within which she lay curled; "that's not all. You haven't heard what the nurse calls me."
"I have indeed," said I, "but don't be angry with me for that. It couldn't be helped. It was the only way. I did it because of the nurse. I think she's a silly woman. At any rate, she wouldn't have understood. It's a false position for you I know. But you mustn't be angry with me. I did it for the best."
I suppose her illness had made her weak; but even then I cannot quite understand it, for when I said that she buried her face in the pillows and all her body shook with weeping. Of course, the nurse came in at that moment. I might have expected it. I believe they have an uncanny way of knowing when they are not wanted; moreover, if they see the faintest sign of affection they will put a stop to it. No doubt they are quite right. They hate it. This creature must have hated it more than most, for when she found Clarissa crying she turned on me in the severest contempt.