It was the wisdom of renunciation and repression; but Laura felt that it was right.
Her hour struck and she went up to Owen. He was lying back now with his eyes closed and his lips parted. Because of its peace his face was like the face of the dead. But his lips were hot under hers and his cheek was fire to her touch. She put her finger on his pulse and he opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"It's finished," he said. "You can take it away now."
She gathered up the loose sheets and laid them in a drawer in his desk. The poem once finished he was indifferent to its disposal. His eyes followed her, they rested on her without noting her movements. They drew her as she came towards him again.
"Forgive me," he said. "It was too strong for me."
"Never again," she murmured. "Promise me, never again till you're well."
"Never again." He smiled as he answered.
Dr. Brodrick, calling late that night, was informed by Laura of the extent to which he had been disobeyed. He thundered at her and threatened, a Brodrick beside himself with fury.
"Do you suppose," she said, "it isn't awful for me to have to stand by and see it, and do nothing? What can I do?"
He looked down at her. The little thing had a will of her own; she was indeed, for her size, preposterously over-charged with will. Never had he seen a small creature so indomitably determined. He put it to her. She had a will; why couldn't she use it?