"You'd better take some anti-pyrine."
"I'm damned if I'll take any anti-pyrine."
"Well, don't, dear; but you needn't be so violent."
"I beg your pardon."
He cooled his hands against a jug of iced water, and pressed them to his forehead.
She left her place and came and sat beside him. "Come," she said in the sweet voice that pierced him, "come and lie down in the study." She laid her hand on his shoulder, and he rose and followed her.
She made him lie down on the sofa in the study, and put cushions under his head, and brought him the anti-pyrine. She sat beside him and dabbed eau-de-cologne all over his forehead, and blew on it with her soft breath. She paused, and sat very still, watching him, for a moment that seemed eternity. She didn't like the flush on his cheek nor the queer burning brilliance in his eyes. She was afraid he was in for a bad illness, and fear made her kind.
"Tell me how you feel, dear," she said gently. She was determined to be very gentle with him.
"Can't you see how I feel?" he answered.
She laid her firm, cool hand upon his forehead; and he gave a cry, the low cry she had once heard and dreamed of afterwards. He flung up his arm, and caught at her hand, and dragged it down, and held it close against his mouth, and kissed it.