"I'm sure he would," he said gently, though his heart was wrung at the sight of her flushed face and bright, unrecognising eyes. "Now will you try to rest a little before I fetch him? See, I'll put my arm round you—so, and if you'll go to sleep I'll send for him. He'll be here when you wake."
He had gathered her into his arms as he spoke, and his very touch seemed to soothe and quiet her.
"You're . . . rather like . . . Peter," she said, staring at him with a troubled frown on her face.
Holding that burningly bright gaze with his own steady one, he answered quietly:
"I am Peter. They said you wanted me, so of course I came. You knew
I would."
"Peter? Peter?" she whispered. Then, shaking her head: "No. You can't be Peter. He's dead, I think. . . . I know he went away somewhere—right away from me."
Mallory's arms closed firmly round her and she yielded passively to his embrace. Perhaps behind the distraught and weary mind which could not recognise him, the soul that loved him felt his presence and was vaguely comforted. She lay very still for some time, and presently one of the nurses, leaning over her, signed to Peter that she was asleep.
"Don't move," she urged in a low voice. "This sleep may be the saving of her."
So, hour after hour, Peter had knelt there, hardly daring to change his position in the slightest, with Nan's head lying against his shoulder, and her hand in his. Now and again one of the nurses fed him with milk and brandy, and after a time the intolerable torture of his cramped arms and legs dulled into a deadly numbness.
Once, watching from the foot of the bed, Kitty asked him softly: