At the knock Blackburn called to her to enter, and when she pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, she saw that he was standing by the window, looking out at the afterglow. Beyond the terrace and the dark spires of the junipers, the autumn fields were changing from brown to purple under the flower-like pink of the sky. Somewhere in the distance one of the Airedale terriers was whining softly.
As soon as he caught sight of her, Blackburn crossed the floor with a rapid stride, and stood waiting for her to speak. Though he did not open his lips, she saw his face grow white, and the corners of his mouth contract suddenly as if a tight cord were drawn. For the first time she noticed that he had a way of narrowing his eyes when he stared fixedly.
"There hasn't been any change, Mr. Blackburn. I wish to speak to you about something else."
From the sharp breath that he drew, she could measure the unutterable relief that swept over him.
"You say there hasn't been any change?"
"Not since morning. She is, of course, very ill, but with a child," she had repeated the phrase so often that it seemed to have lost its meaning, "the crisis sometimes comes very quickly. If we can manage to keep up her strength for the next twenty-four hours, I believe the worst will be over."
His figure, as he stood there in the dim light, was impressed with a new vividness on her mind, and it was as he looked at this moment that she always remembered him.
"Do you wish anything?" he asked. "Is everything being done that is possible?"
"Everything. The doctor is coming to spend the night, and I shall sit up with Miss Webster."
"But don't you need rest? Can you go without sleep and not lose your strength?"