“No! I shan’t. Morphia keeps me awake, comfortably awake. De Quincey used to go to the opera when he was full up with it.”
Peter Kennedy came in, and I followed the line of my own thoughts. I was feeling drowsy.
“I don’t want you to play for me,” I said, a little pettishly perhaps. “I should never have gone to the opera.”
“All right, I won’t.” He asked nurse in a low voice, “How much did you give her?”
“A quarter of a grain, the same as before.” The bleeding had not left off. Benham straightened me amongst the pillows and fed me with ice.
“I shall give her another quarter,” he said abruptly after watching for a few minutes. I smiled gratefully at him. Benham made no comment, but got more hot water. He made the injection carefully enough, but I preferred nurse’s manipulation.
“For Margaret?” I asked him.
“Partly,” he answered. “You will dream tonight.”
“I shall die tonight. I want to die tonight. Give me something to hurry things, be kind. I don’t mind dying, but all this!”
“Don’t. I can’t. Not again. For God’s sake don’t ask me!” There was more than sympathy in his voice. There was agitation, even tears. “You will get better from this.”