In the cloud of purple Joan's eyes grew round and unbelieving.
"Your face, all tears and sorrow and sweetness," said Brian stubbornly, "etched itself on my memory the night Don ran away."
"I—I did not know you saw me."
"I know now that all I did that night I did for you. Don swore at you—remember?"
The flower-like face in the purple cloud saddened. Brian distinctly heard the crackle of the camp fire.
"I thrashed him for it!"
"You said in your letter—"
"I said I would help him, yes, but I wrote and I made Don write because I could not bear to have you hurt and worried. And even at the quarry, when I was keen to be off to Whitaker, I saw your face in the mist, urging me to stay—to stay and help Don. And I did—for you. I know that all these things I did for you. I know!"
But again he was staring at a pansy and the cloud of purple floated hazily away. Tired, ill and aeons old, Brian opened his eyes.
"I'm glad you're awake," said Joan gently. "You were dreaming. Drugs frighten me."