The doctor, after a word to the nurse, had gone out—and the nurse remained. Lorraine's eyes glanced at her impatiently. She was occupied with the chart.
"You're ever so much stronger—aren't you?" said Stephanie, inanely.
"I suppose so—I think I am.... They told me of your being here the evening I was injured. It was very good of you to come, Stephanie."
"I came because they told me you had asked for me," said she quietly.
"I did—I thought I was going to die; and I wanted to see you again—just to—apologize."
"Don't think of that," she replied hastily. "You're not going to die."
"They say I'll probably pull through now—my head is all right—but I'm pretty weak."
"Of course, you're weak," she echoed. "Who wouldn't be weak with all that you've endured."
She simply did not know what to say to him. The last spark of affection was in ashes—cold ashes—else would it have been warmed, at least a trifle, by the sight of him lying there, injured and helpless.