But a minute later she had forgotten everything in the world save that upon which her eyes rested—a short, broad-shouldered man, clean-shaven, with piercing blue eyes that looked straight at her with something—something in their expression that made the heart within her leap and quiver like the strings of an instrument under a master hand.
He came quietly to the bedside, and stood looking down upon her, not uttering a word.
She stretched up her trembling hand.
"I'm very glad to see you," she said weakly. "You got my message? It—it—I hope it didn't annoy you."
"It didn't," said West.
His voice was curt and strained. His fingers had closed very tightly upon her hand.
"Sit down," murmured Cynthia. "No, don't let go. It helps me some to have you hold my hand. Mr. West, I've got to tell you something—something that will make you really angry. I'm rather frightened, too. It's because I'm sick. You—you must just make allowances."
A light kindled in West's eyes that shone like a blue flame, but still he held himself rigid, inflexible as a figure hewn in granite.
"Pray don't distress yourself, Miss Mortimer," he said stiffly. "Wouldn't it be wiser to wait till you are better before you go any further?"
"I never shall be better," Cynthia rejoined, a tremor of passion in her voice, "I never shall go any further, unless you hear me out to-night."