"Jane, of course you're not going to die, and you've made me more than comfortable," he cried, with feeling.
The next day they left the house, in a burst of autumn warmth and glory. The asters and the fall leaves were flaunting their gay colours in the garden, and the vines on the walls, freshened by late rains, fluttered in the sun.
"Oh, Jerry, I wish it were spring!" cried Jane, in her one protest at the crisis she was facing.
He caught it in her tone, and felt the first conscious sympathy with her. He drew her hand through his arm, and led her to the gate to wait for the cab.
"A month from to-day, Jane, maybe we'll be glad it is winter."
"Yes, yes, of course, we must be," she said, getting herself in hand.
He looked at her tenderly, and Jane knew that, if she let go her control and sobbed out her terror to him, he would be her slave—her master. She made her choice then. She knew that she yearned for something to sustain her, which she had not. She even dreamed of what the loyal devotion of a man like Martin might mean to her in such a moment, but never once did she blame Jerry that he did not fill her needs.
"Maybe they aren't my needs; maybe they're the needs of my whole sex. How could he supply that order?" she mused, smilingly, as they rode off in the cab.