The tenderness and gravity of his tone touched the girl's quivering senses almost unbearably. It was like the tenderness of a woman. She felt a wild impulse to throw herself into his arms, and weep. But instead she grew very white and still.
"I can't!"—was all she said, her eyes on the ground. Winnington turned away.
Suddenly—a sound of hasty steps in the hall outside—and the door was opened by a nurse, in uniform.
"Miss Blanchflower!—can you come?"
Delia sprang up. She and the nurse disappeared together.
* * * * *
Winnington guessed what had happened. Weston who was to face a frightful operation on the morrow as the only chance of saving her life, had on the whole gone through the fortnight of preparatory treatment with wonderful courage. But during the last forty-eight hours, there had been attacks of crying and excitement, connected with the making of her will, which she had insisted on doing, being herself convinced that she would die under the knife. Medically, all such agitation was disastrous. But the only person who could calm her at these moments was Delia, whom she loved. And the girl had shewn in dealing with her a marvellous patience and strength.
Presently Madeleine Tonbridge came downstairs—with red eyes. She described the scene of which she had just been a witness in Weston's room. Delia, she said, choking again at the thought of it, had been "wonderful." Then she looked enquiringly at Winnington—
"You met that man going away?"
He sat down beside her, unable to disguise his trouble of mind, or to resist the temptation of her sympathy and their old friendship.