She opened her eyes, heavy with fever; they wandered about, seeking! seeking!
“Julie!”
She lifted herself into his arms.
He held her close, whispering caressing words; she listened, her eyes fixed by the power of his; soon the tired lids drooped; she slept.
Martin felt the fluttering of her heart. He had no sense of time, place; the world was unpeopled; he was the only man, she the only woman. The doctor’s watch registered forty minutes. Mary looked at Floyd. His eyes never left them; his wife in his friend’s arms. The doctor laid the sleeping woman gently back on the pillow. Martin dropped his head down on the bed, helpless; Miss Mary led him downstairs; he fell in a heap in the chair. He was conscious now of Floyd, not the friend—a stranger, with a drawn face, an icy voice.
“What is there between you and my wife?”
The ticking of a clock became distinctly sharp. Should he tell the truth now? No; it would make it impossible for him to come again; he would wait until she got well. He put his hands on Floyd’s shoulders, looking him straight in the face.
Floyd repeated his question.
“What is there between you and my wife?”
“What there has always been, a deep affection.”