"She shouldn't have done that," he complained.
Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, finding a cushion for his head.
"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign begging for pity."
"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" she asked gently.
"What right have they to do it?" he demanded.
"Right?"
She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have been decided without respect for right.
"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied."
Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one—neither himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.
"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for you—awfully sorry—you won't mind that?"