"There is then one microscopic mercy to be thankful for. Then no one knows that you are here with Mr. Le Geyt?"
"No one, but I dare say it will be known presently," said Annette apathetically.
"Not if I can prevent it," said Mrs. Stoddart to herself as she put on her pince-nez and went out to telegraph to the chemist.
Annette went back to the bedside, and the Sister withdrew to the window and got out her breviary.
Annette sat down and leaned her tired head against the pillow with something like envy of Dick's unconsciousness. Would a certain hideous picture ever be blotted out from her aching brain? Her only respite from it was when she could minister to Dick. He was her sole link with life, the one fixed point in a shifting quicksand. She came very near to loving him in these days.
Presently he stirred and sighed, and opened his eyes. They wandered to the ceiling, and then fell idly on her without knowing her, as they had done a hundred times. Then recognition slowly dawned in them, clear and grave.
She raised her head, and they looked long at each other.
"Annette," he said in a whisper, "I am sorry."
She tried to speak, but no words came.
"Often, often, when I have been lying here," he said feebly, "I have been sorry, but I could never say so. Just when I saw your face clear I always went away again, a long way off. Would you mind holding my hand, so that I may not be blown away again?"