"Why didn't you come after dinner? Even then he might have said what he wanted to say. He kept calling for you."
"Don't keep me," said Kitty. "I don't—I won't—believe it is too late."
She pushed her sister aside, and went to bed number five. They had put a screen round the bed; but Kitty pushed the screen open and went in. Sister Eugenia was standing by the bedside. She turned when she saw Kitty, and the dislike she felt for her shone in her calm blue eyes.
"If you were coming, why didn't you come before?" she said. "You can do no good now. You had better go away."
"I won't go away," answered Kitty; "and you have no right to speak to me in those tones."
Then her eyes fell upon Private Lawson, and she became silent. Her face turned the colour of chalk. Her lips trembled. Lawson was breathing rapidly in a shallow way. Kitty went to him; she bent down over him.
"Lawson," she said, "Lawson, I have come at last. I have come to write the letter."
He did not hear her. He breathed on rapidly, and the pallor on his face was terrible to see.
"I have come, Lawson," said Kitty, in a louder tone, "and I will write the letter to the girl you love faithfully."
Then he did open his eyes. Something in her words had arrested him. He looked full up at the white face of the girl. He looked straight into her eyes, so full of self-reproach.