One afternoon last week, when I was sitting by the table in her room reading, she suddenly spoke.
“Evie, how long is it that I’ve been sick here?”
“Nearly a month. You’ve been very ill, but you’re getting better now every day.”
She said no more and I got up and began moving about the room, arranging it for the evening. I was pulling down the blinds when I heard her stirring, and looking back, saw that she had twisted about in the bed and was watching me. In the dusk, her face, framed in elf locks of black hair, looked like a white mask. I thought she was going to ask me something—there was a question in her eyes—but she made no sound. I lighted the lamp and shifted into place the paper rose that hung from the shade. She continued to follow my movements with the intent observation of an animal. I have seen dogs watch their masters just that way. The feeling that something was on her mind grew stronger. I went to her and sat on the side of the bed.
“Do you want to ask me anything?” I said.
She shook her head, but her eyes were unquiet. Suddenly I thought I guessed. I put my hand on hers and spoke very low.
“Lizzie, the thing you told me that night when I came up and found you here”—I looked into her face to see if she understood—“I’ve never told to anybody.”
She stared at me without answering.
“Do you know what I mean?”
She gave a slight affirmative nod.