For his Sake.
Edie rushed to her cousin where she lay prone on the carpet, her face turned toward the shaded lamp, which threw its soft light upon her face, and, even then, in her horror, the girl thought it had never looked so beautiful before; while, as Guest, full of remorse, joined her, he felt ready to bite out his tongue in impotent rage against himself for a boyish babbler in making known to two gentlewomen his fearful discovery at the chambers.
“Shall I ring?” he said excitedly; and he was half-way to the bell before Edie checked him.
“Ring? No; you absurd man!” she cried impatiently. “Lock the doors. Nobody must know of this but us. Here, quick, water.”
Guest was hurrying to obey the businesslike little body’s orders about the doors when she checked him again.
“No, no; it would make matters worse. Nobody is likely to come till uncle leaves the library. Water. Throw those flowers out of that great glass bowl.”
Guest obeyed, and bore the great iridescent vessel, from which he had tossed some orchids, to her side.
“That’s right. Hold it closer. Poor darling! My dearest Myra, what have you done to have to suffer all this terrible pain?”
There were drops other than the cold ones to besprinkle the white face Edie had lifted into her lap, as she sat on the floor, bending down from time to time to kiss the marble forehead and contracted eyelids as she spoke.
“Percy, dear,” she said, as he knelt by her, helpful, but, in spite of the trouble, full of mute worship for the clever little body before him.