Colonel Falconer made no effort to revive her. He stood by her side, gazing with gloomy eyes at the white, unconscious face, and at length he muttered:
“Poor little one! I wish that you would die now, just as you are; then I should never have the pain of resigning you to one who has a better right to you than I have, and in whose love you will utterly forget him who has had no thought but of you since first he saw your beautiful face.”
But he did not have his wish granted, for presently Pansy revived of herself, and looked up dreamily into his face.
“I—I—fainted, did I not?” she murmured slowly. Then, remembering his illness, she asked: “Are you better?”
“Yes,” he answered, but his face was ghastly as he said it. Making a brave effort for calmness, he added: “You stayed away so long, Pansy, that I grew uneasy, and came to seek you.”
“While I selfishly forgot you in my absorption. Oh, forgive me! forgive me!” she cried remorsefully.
“There is nothing to forgive. Your news was startling enough to excuse you for everything,” he replied patiently. Drawing a chair near her, he continued wistfully: “It must have been a great shock of joy to you, Pansy, to find that Norman Wylde was your true husband, instead of the false-hearted wretch we deemed him.”
“Yes,” she murmured faintly.
“And you will wish to be restored to him at once, dear?” he continued, masking with a brave effort the pain he felt in speaking those words.
She started wildly.