“If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, Marmion? Promise me that.” I promised.
I went to her. She was very calm and womanly. She entered the room, went quietly to his bedside, and, sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was pitiful and anxious, but her words were brave.
“My dearest,” she said, “I am so sorry. But you will soon be well, so we must be as patient and cheerful as we can.”
His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then he said: “I hope I may get well.”
“This was the shadow over you,” she ventured. “This was your presentiment of trouble—this accident.”
“Yes, this was the shadow.”
Some sharp thought seemed to move her, for her eyes grew suddenly hard, and she stooped and whispered: “Was SHE there—when—it happened, Galt?”
He shrank from the question, but he said immediately: “No, she was not there.”
“I am glad,” she added, “that it was only an accident.”
Her eyes grew clear of their momentary hardness. There is nothing in life like the anger of one woman against another concerning a man.