"It will be all I shall ever have!" she cried, piteously. "And it cannot harm him. He won't remember it when he comes to his senses. He'll sleep again and--forget. He'll go back to her and never know. And I shall never even see him again. Why can't I have my little sweet hour?"
Once more the man cried her name, and she knelt forward and bent above him. "Oh, at last, Coira!" said he. "After so long! ... And I thought it was another dream!"
"Do you dream of me, Bayard?" she asked.
And he said: "From the very first. From that evening in the Champs-Elysées. Your eyes, they've haunted me from the very first. There was a dream of you," he said, "that I had so often--but I cannot quite remember, because my head hurts. What is the matter with my head? I was--going somewhere. It was so very important that I should go, but I have forgotten where it was and why I had to go there. I remember only that you called to me--called me back--and I saw your eyes--and I couldn't go. You needed me."
"Ah, sorely, Bayard! Sorely!" cried the girl above him.
"And now," said he, whispering.
"Now?" she said.
"Coira, I love you," said the man on the couch.
And Coira O'Hara gave a single dry sob.
She said: "Oh, my dear love! Now I wish that I might die after hearing you say that. My life, Bayard, is full now. It's full of joy and gratefulness and everything that is sweet. I wish I might die before other things come to spoil it."