A glimmer in his eyes showed that he understood the possible impertinent interpretation of his speech.
"You won't mind letting me hold your hand, Sydney, will you?" he had said, in his hoarse, weak voice. "It's one of the perquisites of dying. Tuck your fingers in there, dear. Those doctors have strapped me up so I can't move my arm."
So she sat with her hand in his, and her eyes looking out across the meadows to Buck Mountain, while Bob dozed and woke and dozed again, always smiling happily at her when he found her still beside him, and pressing her fingers in his weak grasp.
As the sun sank towards the west he roused from his stupefied slumber, and spoke with growing clearness.
"It's mighty good of you to stay here, Sydney. I'm selfish to ask you, but I haven't seen you much lately, I've been so busy with the crops."
"You've never failed me, Bob dear. It's my turn now."
"It's just because I'm weak, I suppose, but I want a little flattery. Don't you think I've done pretty well about—drinking?"
"You've been wonderful, Bob. I honor and respect you more than I can say. You feel that, don't you?"
"Thank you, dear. You know I did it for you? Oh, I told her all about it," as Sydney glanced towards the corner where Mrs. Morgan, worn out with grief, was sleeping behind a screen. "I've been a little more hopeful about you lately, since—well——"
He paused, not liking to finish his sentence "since the Baroness came," for it suggested implications too delicate for utterance.