"Oh, yes," said Phyllis mechanically. "I remember."
Allan lay so exactly as he had on that other night, that the strange surroundings seemed incongruous. Just the same, except that his restlessness was more visible, because he had more power of motion.
She bent and held the nervously clenching hands, as she had before. "What is it, Allan?" she said soothingly.
"Nothing," said her husband savagely. "Nerves, hysteria—any other silly womanish thing a cripple could have. Let me alone, Phyllis. I wish you could put me out of the way altogether!"
Phyllis made herself laugh, though her heart hurried with fright. She had seen Allan suffer badly before—be apathetic, irritable, despondent, but never in a state where he did not cling to her.
"I can't let you alone," she said brightly. "I've come to stay with you till you feel quieter.... Would you rather I talked to you, or kept quiet?"
"Oh, do your wifely duty, whatever it is," he said.... "It was a mistake, the whole thing. You've done more than your duty, child, but—oh, you'd better go away."
Phyllis's heart turned over. Was it as bad as this? Was he as sick of her as this?
"You mean—you think," she faltered, "it was a mistake—our marriage?"