He turned his eyes, all at once feeling her lifted gaze. He reached out his right hand and touched the lace edge of her white nurse’s cap, with a faint smile. Something in the smile and the gesture caught at her heart. She leaned suddenly toward him, and taking his hand in both her own, laid her face upon it.
He drew his hand away, breathing sharply.
“Dear!” she said. “Do you remember that afternoon on the sands? You kissed me then! I am the same Margaret now—not changed at all.”
A shudder passed over him, but he did not reply.
Then she knelt beside him, quite close, laying her cheek by his face on the pillow and drawing his one live hand up to her lips. “You are everything to me,” she whispered—“everything, everything! That day on the beach I was happy; but not more happy, dear, than I am now. You were everything else in the world to me then, but now you are me, myself! Don’t turn away; look at me!” Reaching over, she drew his nerveless left arm across her neck.
He turned his face to her with an effort, his lips struggling to speak.
“Kiss me!” she commanded.
He tried to push her back. “No! No!” he cried vehemently, drawing away. “That’s past.”
“Not even that! Just think how long I’ve waited!” She was smiling. “Richard,” she said, “do you know what it means for a woman to kneel to a man like this? I haven’t a bit of pride about it. Only think how ashamed I will be if you refuse to take me! What does a woman do when a man refuses her?”
A white pain had settled upon Daunt’s face. “Margaret,” he faltered, “don’t; I can’t stand it! You don’t know what you say.”