"Take care, please," she said, breathlessly, "you're hurting me—a little."
Then he let her go.
"Oh, Flash!" he said hoarsely. "Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't that tell you something?"
She was looking in the mirror at a little red mark where he had pressed the earring into her neck.
"Good-bye," he said again, and she heard the hall door slam. And then the throb of the motor began to rattle the windows in their frames.
She fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands.
XI
TWO GRAINS OF HOPE
If that early morning call at half-past five had been my only meeting with Fenella, I don't think I should have known her when she came back at nine. All the weariness had gone out of her face. Under her light cloak she was freshly and beautifully dressed. Her eyes seemed to brim with a sort of wistful happiness. I hated the task; but knowing what she was about to see, I had to try and prepare her. But I soon saw I was having my trouble for nothing. I think she hardly heard me. Her heart, it was plain, was full of that brave, sane hope that, even when it is brought to nothing, I think bears sorrow best. Webber had just paid his morning visit, but she did not wait for his report. I fancy from the look he gave me that he took in the situation at a glance. I smiled back at him a little nervously. He had prescribed two grains of hope, and I was conscious of bringing an overdose.
In the private ward my impulsive companion took no notice of doctors or nurses, but went straight over to the bed on whose snowy pillow the poor wasted face lay like a gray shadow. She gave a little moan at the first sight of it: that was all. His eyes were closed. She knelt down, and passing her arm ever so gently underneath his neck, threw back her cloak, and laid the shadowy face upon the warmth, and the fragrance, and the softness beneath.