She turned and clung to him very tightly. "Max, I—I've got something—on my mind."
His arm, very steady and strong, grew close about her. "Tell me!" he said.
Haltingly she complied. "You will think me morbid. I can't help it. Max, all last night—all last night—I felt as if—as if a spirit were with me—calling—calling—calling, trying to make me understand something, trying to—to warn me—of some danger—I couldn't see."
She broke off in tears. It seemed impossible to put the thing into words. It was so intangible yet in her eyes so portentous. Max's hand was on her head, stilling her agitation. She wondered if he thought her very absurd, but he did not leave her long in doubt.
"There's nothing to cry about, my dear," he said. "Your nerves were a bit strung up after the tiger episode, that's all. They will quiet down in a day or two. All the same"—his hand pressed a little—"I'm glad you told me. A trouble shared is only half a trouble, is it? And I have a right to all your troubles now."
He took her handkerchief, and dried her eyes with the utmost kindness; then turned her face gently upwards.
"Is that quite all?" he asked.
She tried to smile, with quivering lips.
"Not quite?" he questioned. "Come, I may as well know, mayn't I?"
"I don't know that there is anything gained by telling you," she said.
"You never liked talking about your cases to me."