“It’s time for your milk and brandy,” she said suddenly, emotion subsiding and a look of purpose coming into her face. She poured out the liquid, and gave the glass into his hand. His fingers touched hers.
“Your hands are cold,” she said to him. “Cold hands, warm heart,” he chattered.
A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. “I shouldn’t have thought it in your case,” she said, and with sudden resolve turned towards the door. “I’ll send Madame Bulteel,” she added. “I’m going for a walk.”
She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what she felt, and yet, yet why did he not—she did not know what she wanted him to do. It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what had been working in him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was a woman. In her heart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yet in her heart of hearts she denied that he cared.
She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blind man, back from the Valley of the Shadow. She had not reached the door, however, when Madame Bulteel entered the room.
“The doctor from New York has come,” she said, holding out a note from Dr. Rockwell. “He will be here in a couple of hours.”
Fleda turned back towards the bed.
“Good luck!” she said. “You’ll see, it will be all right.”
“Certainly I’ll see if it’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “Am I tidy? Have I used Pears’ soap?” He would have his joke at his own funeral if possible.
“There are two hours to get you fit to be seen,” she rejoined with raillery, infected by his cheerfulness in spite of herself. “Madame Bulteel is very brave. Nothing is too hard for her!”