Of course, the ball had been postponed—"only for a week," Val insisted, and Ethan had agreed. Later this same day, he, still sitting there in the blue room, wondering against his will at her recovered spirits, refusing to understand, asked her if the pain was gone. She made the motion "No," moving the brown head from side to side on the pillow.
"You are suffering a great deal?" he faltered, as he bent above her.
She was evidently not thinking of the kind of pain he meant.
"If I were partly paralyzed, as lots of people are," she said, with something of the old defiance, "it would hurt less, I suppose. When I feel like shrinking, I just remember it's a sign none of me is dead yet, that I can suffer from my head to my feet as horribly as this."
"Val!" He sank down on his knees and buried his head in the coverlet.
"But I'll have all eternity for being free of pain. When I remember that"—she pulled herself up and spoke in a clear, practical tone—"it brings me to my senses."
"What can I do for you, dear—what can I do?"
"Don't go away."
"I won't."
"I'm afraid you will."