She stopped, for a deep breath escaped from Neil’s breast, sounding like a faint groan of relief.
“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly.
“Sir Denton tells me,” she said again, but more firmly, for his tone irritated her over-strung nerves, “that you have accepted an appointment to go out to one of the most unhealthy places on the West Coast.”
The spell was broken, and he could speak out now firmly and well.
“Yes,” he said, with a feeling of eager joy that they were off dangerous ground. “I suppose the place is unhealthy, for the suffering there is terrible. It has been full of horrors, but I hope to change all that.”
“And the risk—to your life?”
He laughed—harshly, it sounded to her—and she shrank away at his next words, but still clutched the marble mantelpiece.
“This from you?” he said; and she thought it was meant as a reproach, but his next words gave her confidence. “Why, you would go into any plague-stricken place without shrinking, or realising the danger.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “if it were necessary. I hope so.”
“Well, then, why should I hesitate? I hope I shall not suffer. It would be a pity,” he continued, quite calmly now, and his words seemed unimpassioned and dreamy in their simplicity. “If I died, I suppose it would be a loss to the poor people out there, whom I hope to save. They might have a difficulty in getting another man.”