The extravagant word, reviving dear and imperishable memories, called up a quivering smile, more heart-piercing than a cry: and Desmond, putting a great restraint upon himself, enfolded her with one arm, and kissed her softly, lingeringly, as one might kiss a child.
"My very Theo," she murmured, her voice breaking with love. "It has been so perfect . . I suppose that's why . . Not three years yet; and . . I can't bear . . to leave you behind, even for a little."
"You'll not do that, Honor," his voice had the level note of decision.
"If you go, . . . I go too."
"No, no. You must wait . . for your boy."
Desmond set his teeth, and answered nothing. In the stress of anguish he had forgotten his child.
Suddenly a convulsive shuddering ran through her, and her breath came short and quick.
"Theo, . . what's happening?" she panted. "Where are you? Hold me.
Everything's . . slipping away."
It cut him to the heart to unclasp the fingers that clung to him; though he was back again in a moment, holding weak brandy and water to her lips.
"Drink it, Honor. For God's sake, drink it!" he commanded, a ring of fear in his voice. For in that moment, a change, terrible and significant, had come over her. His appeal produced no response, no movement of lips or eyelids. Her face seemed to shrink and sharpen, and change colour before his eyes. Her breath was cold as the air from a cave.
He set down the wine-glass, and in the first shock and horror of it all stood like a man turned to stone. Then common-sense pricked him back to life, and to the necessity for immediate action. After so sharp an attack, collapse would probably be severe and prolonged. He laid his fingers on her pulse. It was rapid, and barely perceptible, but the still small flutter of life was there.