He grinned at her sheepishly. He was afraid.
“Foster must have gone out,” she explained, staring at him wide-eyed.... “What is it, sweet?”
“I just thought——” Ivor mumbled, as he stumbled past her into the narrow hall.
She closed the door softly behind them; and then she turned to him with a concerned, business-like air. It was so unlike Ivor, to come thus! He stood staring at her limply, with his back to the wall, limply. He just stared at her, with a ridiculous smile. And Magdalen saw the bright pink patches on the sallow cheeks—and how cadaverous he looked!—and the dark eyes bright with fever. And her own grew vivid with concern, she shook him by the shoulder to wake him to his condition, for he was standing against the wall smiling stupidly at her.
“Ivor, how dare you be out in this state!” she cried vividly. “You look frightfully ill, you ought to be in bed....” And with the palm of her hand she lightly brushed his forehead, and the fever of it seemed to stab her with anxiety. But it was cool to him, a white hand of ice on his forehead, adorable ice, and he caught this hand by the wrist and pressed it to his burning skin. He forgot his illness, and the pain in his side which caught at every breath. He was wonderfully comfortable with her, luxurious in the scrutiny of her concern. He wasn’t listening to her quick words, his silly smile bade her to be quiet, ... and, with her palm still pressed by him to his forehead, he caught her round the body with one arm and held her to him, raising her off her feet so that he could kiss her lips. Ice again, ice. He did not look into her eyes, he was afraid to, for his kisses brought no lustre to them now; and how dexterous she was now! somehow luring him to her cheek, where lies only the sulky stuff of love. Magdalen couldn’t pretend, ever. Nervous words of comfort came from her, a small laugh, a tiny, helpless gesture. Dear Magdalen! And so he thought to comfort her for the boredom of his kisses.
“I’m sorry, Magdalen,” he said....
“I’ve had such an awful day, Magdalen,” he said. His eyes were wet....
His illness was quite forgot—but not by her. She was silent, racked by anxiety as to what to do with him.
“You see, Magdalen,” he whispered dazedly, “life is a most awful mess without you. It’s caddish of me to make you responsible for all the beauty in life, but I can’t help it. I must tell you. You’ve got no right, you know, to be so admirable to a man....”
“And then,” he said suddenly, “to be so admirable to another man.” He wanted to go on, to say something caddish....