The sudden raising of her eyes as she looked at him over the blossoms was something of a revelation, for they smiled at him with splendid directness.
"You are improving," she laughed, "or you've a Blarney Stone under the pillow. I can't remember when you've said anything so nice as that at all."
He was thoughtful for a moment.
"Perhaps I have a new vision," he said at last. "The bullet in my head may have helped. It has probably affected my optic nerve."
She smiled with him.
"You really do seem different, somehow," she broke in. "I can't exactly explain it. Perhaps it's the pallor that makes the eyes look dark and your voice—it's softer—entirely."
"Really——!" he muttered, uncomfortably, his gaze on the gray blanket. "Well, you see, I suppose it's what I've been through. My eyes would seem darker, wouldn't they, against white, and then my voice—er—it isn't very strong yet."
"Yes, that's it," she replied.
Her eyes daunted him from his purpose a little, and he knew that he would have to use extreme caution, but he had resolved whatever came to see the game through. After all, if she discovered his secret, it was only what he had tried in vain to tell her.
"I'm sure of it," he went on. "When a fellow comes as near death as I've been, it makes him different. I seem to think in a new way about a lot of things—you, for instance."