She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera was crushing the soldier spirit out of her by inches.
"God! I don't believe she heard me," he murmured in sudden despair.
At that Desmond uncovered his eyes. "She heard you, right enough," he said quietly, "Trust me not to let her go."
And Meredith went reluctantly out, leaving man and wife alone with the
Shadowy Third; the only third that could ever come between them.
Honor's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder, and she opened her eyes; the soul in them struggling to pierce the mists that deepened every minute.
"Darling," she breathed. "Come closer . . much closer. I wish . . I wish you didn't seem all blurred."
He bent nearer, looking steadfastly into her altered face.
"That better, dear?" he asked, controlling his voice with an effort.
"Yes. A little. Whatever John may say, it was my fault," she persisted, for in spite of pain and prostration, the mists had not clouded her brain. "It was selfish of me to insist. See . . what I've made you suffer. But you don't . . blame me, do you, . . in your heart?"
"Blame you, . . my best beloved? How can you ask it? I . . I worship you," he added very low.