"Because I want you to know!" gasped Cynthia. "Wait! Let me finish! I wanted—to see—if—if you really cared for me. I thought—if you did—you wouldn't be able to go on pretending. But—but—you managed to—somehow—after all."
She ended, battling with her tears; and West, the strong, the cold, the cynical, bowed his head upon her hand and groaned.
"It was for—your own sake," he muttered brokenly, without looking up.
"I know," whispered back Cynthia. "That was just what made it so impossible to bear. Because, you see, I cared, too."
He was silent, breathing heavily.
Cynthia watched his bent head wistfully, but she did not speak again till she had mastered her own weakness.
"Mr. West," she said softly at length.
He stirred, pressing her hand more tightly to his eyes.
"I am going to tell you now," proceeded Cynthia, "just why I asked you to come to me. I suppose you know all about this trouble of mine—that I shall either die very soon, or else have to carry my arm in a sling for the rest of my life. Now that's where you come in. Would you—would you feel very badly if I died, I wonder?"
He raised his head at that, and she saw his face as she had seen it once long ago—alert, vital, full of the passionate intensity of his love for her.