She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, where it fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. On the creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprang to the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.
The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. She stirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, and partially relapsed into coma.
"Thank God!" said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he once more applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:
"Forgive me, Dorothy—it's all right—everything's all right," but her senses accepted nothing of his meaning.
For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at her hands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper to waft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she was fairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertion of will and sat up, weakly, passing her hand across her brow.
"I must have fainted," she said. She was very white.
"You're all right now—the heat and unusual excitement," he answered reassuringly. "Don't try to do anything but rest."
She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears had returned with her awakened intelligence.
"You mustn't stay," she told him with a firmness he was not prepared to expect. "Please go as soon as you can."
"But—can I leave you like this? You may need me," he answered. "If there's anything I can do——"