"No," she said. "I won't. I can't. I don't want to have anything to do with you. What were you doing all those days when he was dying?"
He slunk from her, conscience-stricken. "My dear Molly," he said, "I'm awfully sorry, but you're a damned little fool. You'd better hold your tongue before you say something you'll be sorry for."
"I'm going to hold my tongue. If I pleased myself I should never speak to you again."
Ah, she had said something very like that not long before.
He sighed heavily. Then he drew a chair up to the fire and lowered himself carefully into it. He was shivering.
"All right," he muttered between chattering teeth. "Get me some brandy, will you? You can do that without speaking."
"Nevill—what's the matter?"
"Nothing. I've got an infernally bad chill coming here, that's all."
She flew for the brandy.
Yes; there was no mistake about it. It was an infernally bad chill, and it saved him.