She returned swiftly, and sat by him as she had before.
"Would you mind—holding my wrists again?" he asked. "I feel quieter, somehow, when you do—not so—lost." There was a pathetic boyishness in his tone that the sad, clear lines of his face would never prepare you for.
Phyllis took his wrists in her warm, strong hands obediently.
"Are you in pain, Allan?" she asked. "Do you mind if I call you Allan? It's the easiest way."
He smiled at her a little, faintly. It occurred to her that perhaps the novelty of her was taking his mind a little from his own feelings.
"No—no pain. I haven't had any for a very long time now. Only this dreadful blackness dragging at my mind, a blackness the light hurts."
"Why!" said Phyllis to herself, being on known ground here—"why, it's nervous depression! I believe cheering-up would help. I know," she said aloud; "I've had it."
"You?" he said. "But you seem so—happy!"
"I suppose I am," said Phyllis shyly. She felt a little afraid of "poor Allan" still, now that there was nothing to do for him, and they were talking together. And he had not answered her question, either; doubtless he wanted her to say "Mr. Allan" or even "Mr. Harrington!" He replied to her thought in the uncanny way invalids sometimes do.
"You said something about what we were to call each other," he murmured. "It would be foolish, of course, not to use first names. Yours is Alice, isn't it?"