"Not at all," he responded whimsically, his eyes devouring her face. "I haven't been awake long enough to feel anything—except your hand in mine," he added softly.
She thoughtfully regarded the hand he still held, yet did not try to draw it away. Instead she smiled a little—a smile that set Allen's heart to throbbing painfully, and said, so softly he could hardly hear her:
"Aren't you just a little bit curious to know what I think of you—and everybody else, for that matter—after what you did the other day?"
"Yes, what do you think of me?" he asked breathlessly. "I've wanted ever since I can remember, to know that."
"I think," said Betty, flushing, yet meeting his eager eyes steadily, "you're the dearest and most wonderful person I ever knew."
"Betty," he cried hoarsely and would have leaped from the bed had she not forcibly restrained him. "Oh, Betty, Betty," he murmured over and over again. "Did you mean that—did you?"
"I—I'm not the only one," said Betty, startled at what she had done. "Everybody is talking about you and praising you to the skies, and there was even a piece about you in the paper. I—I'm afraid when you are able to get out and hear how everybody is raving about you, you'll be spoiled entirely."
"Betty," he commanded, in so very different a tone from any he had ever used before that she started and looked at him shyly, "what are you running on about such nonsense for? If I did anything, it was for you and because I loved you, Betty. There wasn't any heroism. I don't deserve any fuss about it and I don't want any thanks. I don't deserve any. You weren't hurt, Betty?"
"No," she answered softly, not daring to look at him. This was such a different Allen and so wonderfully attractive. "Mollie and I were both a little sick from the smoke and shock, but it didn't take us long to recover. You were the one who was so terribly burned that for one horrible long day, the doctors didn't know whether you'd pull through or not. Oh, Allen, that awful day!"
"Were you worried?" queried Allen gently.