Something in the new vitality of the tone made Guthrie stop whatever he was doing and eye her suspiciously.
"How long have you been conscious like this?" he queried in surprise.
The faintest perceptible flicker of mischief crossed her haggard face.
"Three—days," she acknowledged.
"Because I—didn't know—just what to call you," she faltered.
After that no power on earth apparently could induce any further speech from her for another three days. Solemn and big-eyed and totally unfathomable, she lay watching Guthrie's every gesture, every movement. From the door to the chair, from the chair to the window, from the window back to the chair, she lay estimating him altogether disconcertingly. Across the hand that steadied her drinking glass, she studied the poise of his lean, firm wrist. Out from the shadow-mystery of her heavy lashes, she questioned the ultimate value of each frown or smile.
And then, suddenly—just as abruptly as the first time she had spoken:
"What day is it?" she asked.
"It's Christmas," said Guthrie softly.