In the blue bungalow a strained calmness prevailed. The work that must be done could only be carried through by living from hour to hour, as Paul had said; and Evelyn could now no longer be shielded from the pain of knowledge.
On the morning after her first night of vigil, Honor came to her; and, keeping firm hold of both her hands, told her, simply and straightly, that the coming week would make the utmost demands upon her strength and courage.
Evelyn listened with wide eyes and blanching cheeks.
"Did—did I make him bad?" she asked in an awe-struck whisper, for she had not been able to keep her own counsel in regard to her fatal interview with Theo.
"I think not—I hope not," Honor answered gravely. "But you did wound him cruelly; and whatever happens, you must not fail him now."
Evelyn looked up with a distressed puckering of her forehead.
"I don't want to—fail him, Honor. But you know I'm not a bit of use with sick people; and I can't all of a sudden turn brave and strong, like you."
Honor's smile expressed an infinite deal, but she did not answer at once. She wanted to be very sure of saying the right word; and it is only when we try to grapple with another's intimate need that we find ourselves baffled by the elusive, intangible spirits of those with whom we share sunlight and food and the bewildering gift of speech. Honor was wondering now whether, by a supreme concentration of will, she could possibly infuse some measure of the soldier spirit into Theo Desmond's wife; and the extravagant idea impelled her to a sudden decision.
She drew Evelyn nearer.