He heard the voice and opened his eyes again with a start.
"You here!" he muttered.
And he knew it was she by the touch of her hand upon his cheek.
She told him then what had happened. He smiled feebly, patiently, as though he realized she was only trying to comfort him.
She slipped down upon her knees beside the bed.
"Don't you understand," she whispered, and her voice sounded far away to him, "you ran so fast the others were away behind, and you broke the record, and—oh—oh—Bunny."
She hid her face on the pillow beside his.
Then it all became clear to him, her love, and the depth and meaning of it. He forgave her for what he was pleased to call, in his mind, the white lie of her comfort.
"Dearest," he murmured, dreamily, "it's all right; it's all right." He stroked her hair, feebly. Then, after a moment, he muttered, quite to himself: "What happened, anyway; why was it they wouldn't let me run?"