“I won’t.”
“I knew you would say exactly that; but when you think it over you will come. Remember that the doctor practically says that you can either save or prolong his life. Mamma is simply distracted. You know she adores Bev, and she broke down completely last night and told me to come and beg you to return. You know what that means: you’ll have nothing to fear from her.”
“Oh, I can’t go back! I can’t! I think I should die if I went back.”
“We don’t die so easily, my dear. Now, I’ll go and let you think it over,” and the diplomat kissed Patience and retired.
Patience endeavoured to put the matter out of her mind, but it harassed her through her day’s duties, and her work was bad. Steele told her as much the next afternoon when she came into the office late, intending to write there instead of at home. Her room was haunted by Beverly’s pallid face and sunken eyes.
“Oh, well,” she said, flinging herself down before a table, “perhaps it’s the last, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Why? What do you mean? You do look pale. Are you ill?”
Patience hesitated a moment, then told him of the complication. He listened, without comment, looking down upon the skurrying throngs.
“I suppose I must go,” she said in conclusion. “Anyway I feel that I shall go, whether I want to or not.”
He came over to the table and regarded her with his preternatural seriousness.