"If she doesn't love you, she will not marry you."
"Watch Miss Hepworth; be silent, be wary, watch! and when you see what I know you will see, then speak to her—tell her to her face that she loves him. She will deny it, perhaps, or perhaps she will confess it. If she does, you are to tell her there is only one way out—she must marry me! If she refuses, let me know. I shall have another lever to bring to bear. Now, good-night, Miss Hepworth."
The major strode from the room. Kitty looked wildly round her. She was alone, and night was over the scene. Even over the doomed city of Ladysmith the moon shone, and there was a white sort of fragrance in the air, and the dust no longer covered everything. The beleaguered town lay quiet under the wing of sleep—that is, all those slept who were not suffering from enteric, or from deadly wounds, or from the slow, the slow, cruel death of starvation; for already rations were short, and food was precious. The uneasy neighing of half-fed horses came to Kitty's ears as she went and stood by the open window. She did not heed, she did not care; she was selfishly absorbed in her own mad thoughts, her own wild grief.
The door was opened, and Katherine Hunt came in.
"Well, Kitty," she said, "any better?"
"Yes, much better," said Kitty. She turned, and faced Katherine.
"Come over here and let me look at you," said Katherine suddenly.
She took Kitty's hand and drew her towards the lamp. She looked full into her face. Kitty's face was very white, her eyes were too big, and the black marks under them too dark for health. But just now the eyes were bright and the lips were firm, and there was a hectic flush on each thin cheek.
"I thought you looked well, but I doubt if you do," said Katherine. "You look strange. Is anything the matter?"
"No," said Kitty, "no; only, Kate—"