“I’m dreading the day, dear,” she said, a little tremulously. “I’m such a coward... I’m afraid,—of him.”
“He’s a sick man, Pamela,” he said, desirous of reassuring her. “Illness changes a man.”
“I know,” she said.
She was quiet for a while, watching the paling stars in the slowly brightening heavens, observant of the gradual definement of the landscape, as the light revealed it, first as a clear colourless picture in the grey dawn, and later as a wonder of separate distinct shades of green and amber beneath a sky already flushing with the promise of the day.
He tried to distract her thoughts by speaking on impersonal topics, by bringing the talk back again after a while to themselves. He did not speak of love. That was all past and done with. He assumed a new attitude, was quietly protective and helpful and reassuring. He drew up her plans for her, and settled where they would stay. It was Pamela’s wish that they should go to the same hotel. He had suggested separate hotels; but he gave in to her pleading. After all what did it matter? He was there to advise and help her; it was better that he should be at hand.
“I am leaving everything to you,” she said, regarding him wistfully.
“Of course,” he answered. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“There’s one thing,”—she paused, then completed the sentence—“I want you to do, if you don’t mind... It’s been troubling me. Would you tell the doctor,—what you think necessary to make him understand? I shouldn’t know how to explain...”
He smiled down into the distressed blue eyes, and laid his hand warmly upon hers.
“I never intended you should explain,” he answered. “That’s my job too.”