“Yes,” she answered quietly. “I knew he would be dead.”
He tried to read her thought; but his head was stupid with pain; he could not. He saw only the calm, pale face with that quality of mystery upon it which is upon all beauty.
“I feel for your sorrow,” he stammered.
“Yes, Charles,” she answered. “You feel for my sorrow, I know.”
“Olivia,” he said, “would it pain you too much to hear. To hear about it?”
“You ought not to be talking with your wound, Charles.”
“I must tell you, Olivia. If you can bear it. It may be harder to-morrow.”
“Tell me then,” she said. “If you feel. If you wish. I am quite calm, Charles. Tell me everything.”
“He died of yellow fever, Olivia. In the Governor’s house there. The tall house above the bastion there.”
“I can’t look, Charles. Don’t tell me where. I’m. Yes?”