"I was waiting for you to waken," she said.
"Well?"
"I hadn't quite had the last word yet," she said, with a slight laugh.
Lawrence sat up.
"I was a brute to tell you I had never loved you," he exclaimed, abruptly.
"Never mind; we must always tell the truth, you know," she returned, lightly.
He said nothing. He was trying to brush the clouds away from his brain and think clearly.
"And since we must speak truth," she went on, "I was waiting to tell you I was distractedly in love with you,—it was no make-believe,—but that I was deadly tired of the whole thing in a few months. It's not quite a year yet, is it? That's why I wanted to amuse myself with Mr. Meramble, or somebody. But when you flung Meramble into the ocean you did it so well, and he seemed so insignificant, that I was almost in love with you again. But it didn't last. Now I've had the last word; I imagine we understand each other."
She rose and stretched her arms above her head. She glanced at her watch.
"I'm going sailing with Mrs. Yorke and a few others. I hope you won't need anything before I come back. Don't you think you'd better try to have another nap? You look very tired. And I hope you won't forget your medicine, and all that kind of thing."