He winced perceptibly, and she remembered that there was one.
"Ah, if you really knew me, Kathy, you'd cut me dead!"
"My dear Vincent, don't talk rubbish. I do know—a good deal—and I'm very sorry; that's all. I should be sorrier if I thought it was going to last for ever; but I don't."
"You are too good to me; but—if you only knew!"
He sat silent, watching as she sewed. Something in his attitude reminded her of that other evening, three months ago, when he had lain back in that chair boasting gloriously, full of hope and the pride of life. He appealed to her more now in his illness and degradation than he had ever done in his splendid sanity. For he had seemed so strong; there was no outward sign of weakness then about that long-limbed athlete.
"Vincent," she said presently, "what's become of the Pioneer-book? You promised to read me some of it—don't you remember?"
"Yes. I shall never do anything with it now."
"Oh, Vincent, what a pity! But if it's not to be printed, do you mind my seeing the manuscript?"
"No; I'll let you have it some day, Sis, and you shall do what you like with it." He sank into silence again.
"Where's Ted?" he asked suddenly.