Maseden was just beginning to realize that he owned a left arm. Circulation was being restored, and he knew it.
“Now that you mention it,” he said quietly, “I believe it is.”
She spoke again, but he was in such agony that he broke out in a perspiration, a most fortunate circumstance, since he was perished with cold. The spasm did not last long, however, and he found his voice again.
“Are you Miss Nina Gray?” he asked, and, in the same breath, was conscious of the absurd formality of the question in the conditions.
She did not answer.
“We may as well become acquainted,” he went on, smiling at the queer turn their first words had taken.
“Now I remember everything,” she said, burying her face in her hands.
“I can’t have you crying,” he muttered with a certain roughness. “Tears won’t help. We’re in a pretty bad fix, and must meet developments calmly.”
“I’m not crying,” she said, dropping her hands, and looking at him as though to offer proof.
“Then you can at least tell me your name, though I’m almost sure that you are Nina. Even here, your sister, who is also my wife, keeps away from me.”