"And now," he went on, "you must get him to go home at once, or he'll have a bad break-down. You've got to tell him, Charlotte."
She stood up, ready. "Where is he?"
"By himself. In his room."
She went to him there.
He was sitting at his little table. He had been trying to write a letter, but he had pushed it from him and left it. You could see he was absorbed in some bitter meditation. She seated herself at the head of his bed, on his pillow, where she could look down at him.
"John," she said, "you can't go on like this—"
"Like what?"
He held his head high; but the excited, happy light had gone out of his eyes; they stared, not as though they saw anything, but withdrawn, as though he were contemplating the fearful memory of his fear.
And she was sorry for him, so sorry that she couldn't bear it. She bit her lip lest she should sob out with pain.
"Oh—" she said, and her pain stopped her.