“Well, doctor,” she said, half laughing, “loth to part with your patient? I am quite well.”
He was dumb. A whirlwind of emotion was sweeping through him, as he vainly sought to shape his course. Could he tell her of her passionate avowal, or would it be too cowardly to take advantage of her past weakness?
He could not recall that—not now. Some day, perhaps, he might; but now he felt that he must approach her unarmed. She was delirious, and her brain must be a blank to all that had passed, and he would speak plainly—conventionally.
“Why, doctor,” she said at last, half-wonderingly, “of what are you thinking?”
“Thinking?” he said hoarsely.
“Yes; you look so serious. Surely I am not going to have a relapse?”
“Oh, no!” he cried.
“Then why do you look at me like this?”
She asked him the question so naïvely, as she half lay back in her place, that a cold chill came upon him again, and, letting her hand fall, he took a turn to the window and back, half ready to say nothing then; but nerving himself once more, he took a chair, drew it to the lounge, and, seating himself again, took her hand.
“Another inspection, doctor?” she said, half laughingly; and then, as she met his eyes, she seemed to comprehend his meaning, and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tightly.