She turned and walked up and down the floor, her steps uneven with anguish, her fingers laced and unlaced in tearless convulsion, and her throat contracting with soundless sobs.
Lois watched her, her mind saying over and over to itself: “If she would only cry! If she would only cry!” There was something more terrible than tears in this inarticulate anguish. At last she went and stood in Margaret’s way, clinging entreatingly to her. “Do let me help you, dear! Lie down and let me cover you up and make you some tea! Do please, dear!” She stopped, struck by the ashy pallor of her face.
“No, no, Lois. I can’t stay here! Think! He may be dying now! I must go to him! Oh, you have got to let me—they can’t forbid me that. I was going to stay with him to-night, anyway. You know I was! I can’t let him die! He shan’t! I’ll fight it off with him. I don’t care what Dr. Faulkner says; I don’t care what you think! You mustn’t say no, Lois! Oh, Lois, darling! I’ll die now, right here, if you don’t.” She dropped on her knees at Lois’s feet, catching her hand and kissing it in grovelling entreaty.
“You know I’ll have to let you, if you ask like that!” cried Lois. “I’m only thinking of you—and of him,” she added. “You know if you should break down——”
“But I won’t—I won’t!” A gulping hiccough strained her, and Lois poured out a glass of water for her hastily, and stood over her while she swallowed it in choking mouthfuls.
XX.
In the dimmed light Margaret bent above Daunt’s bed to wipe away the creeping, beady sweat that lay on the forehead, and laid her fingers on his wrist. Then she came close to Lois. She had bitten her lip raw and her neck throbbed out and in above her close collar.
“It’s fluttering,” she whispered piteously, “and he’s so cold! See how pinched and blue his nose is. Oh, God—Lois!”