"But I always knew, really, that you couldn't care for me in that way. It was a temporary deceit, the way you can make yourself believe for a few minutes that you haven't a toothache, and then it jumps on you again."
"Dear old Bob."
Sydney bent forward and kissed him. Over his face spread a radiance of unexpected happiness.
"Oh, Sydney, you darling! I say, Sydney, if you wouldn't think that I'm taking advantage of my condition—would you mind—would you do that again?"
She kissed him again, gladly, willingly, and he sank happily to sleep. When he woke once more he asked for von Rittenheim.
"He's down-stairs. He's been waiting all day hoping you'd want to see him."
Sydney summoned Friedrich. He uttered an exclamation of sorrow as he saw the big black eyes looking from their hollows, and the white face of the man so suddenly brought to this pass from the full tide of strength.
"For-r my sake!" he groaned. "How with all my soul I wish it were I!"
He took Bob's other hand—Sydney had resumed her old position—and tried to command his voice. It was Bob who spoke first:
"What about Pressley?"