With their arms across each other's shoulders they went back into the sick room.
Rousing from her lethargy, the young woman opened her eyes upon them with the first understanding that she had shown for some days. Inquisitively she stared from Guthrie's somber eyes to Andrews' distorted cheerfulness.
Taking instant advantage of her unwonted rationality, Andrews blurted out the question that was uppermost in his professional responsibility.
"Don't you think, maybe, your people ought to know about your being sick?" he said. "Now, if you could give us any addresses."
For a second it really seemed as though the question would merely safely ignite her common sense.
"Why yes, of course," she acquiesced. "My brother."
Then suddenly, without any warning, her most dangerous imagination caught fire.
"You mean," she faltered, "that—I—am—not—going to get well?"
Before either man was quick enough to contradict her, the shock had done its work. Piteously she turned her face to the pillow.
"Never—never—to—go—to—Oxford?" she whispered in mournful astonishment. "Never—even—to—see my—Bay of Naples?—Never to—have a—a—perfectly happy Christmas?" A little petulantly then her brain began to clog. "I think I—might at least have had—the pink sash!" she complained. Then, equally suddenly her strength rallied for an instant and the eyes that she lifted to Guthrie's were filled with a desperate effort at raillery. "Bring on your—anchovies and caviar," she reminded him, "and the stuffed green peppers—and remember I don't like my fillet too well done—and—"