"It's nothing—don't fuss over me. It's the heat—nothing more——"
"Then you ought not to be out here."
She laughed defiantly.
"You're not my doctor, Major Tristram, and I won't be bullied. Besides, you've whetted my curiosity. There now, I'm all right again. What were you saying about Colonel Boucicault? You—you operated, and now he's going to get well?"
"I think so." But he answered absently. He was still intent on her face, striving to get beneath the mask. The moment's livid pallor had gone, but she was none the less changed. Her voice, level and quiet, had yet a new tone in it—a kind of hoarseness which he knew as a symptom of exhaustion and pain. She turned away, trying to avoid his eyes.
"Has he been able to speak?"
"Not yet. He is not even properly conscious. It may last some weeks."
She gave a little cynical laugh.
"I suppose some one will be glad."
"Anne—my wife."