All Vera's arrogance had vanished in her husband's presence, just as his curt imperiousness had given place to the winning dominance which he knew so well how to wield. "You'll do it for me," was one of his pet phrases, and he seldom uttered it in vain. She gave him the joyful sacrifice of love newly-awakened.
"I wonder if we shall go on like this when I'm well again," she said to him on an evening of rose-coloured dusk in early August when he was sitting by her side with her long thin hand in his.
"Like what?" said Edward Fielding.
She smiled at him from her pillow. "Well, spoiling each other in this way. Will you never be overbearing and dictatorial? Shall I never be furious and hateful to you again?"
"I hope not," he said. "In fact, I think not."
He spoke very gravely. She stirred, and in a moment her other hand came out to him also. He clasped it closely. Her eyes were shining softly in the dusk.
"You are—so good to me, Edward—my darling," she said.
His head was bent over her hands. "Don't!" he muttered huskily.
Her fingers closed on his. "Edward, will you tell me something?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he said.