She smiled at him.
"It will be all right," she whispered. "My poor Philip!" and she led him back to the sick room.
"George--I wanted you to come back, to talk this thing out," said Philip, turning to him as he entered, with the tyranny of weakness. "There's no time to waste. You know--everybody knows--I may get worse--and there'll be nothing settled. It's my duty to settle--"
Elizabeth interrupted him.
"Philip darling!--"
She was hanging over his chair, while Anderson stood a few feet away, leaning against the mantelpiece, his face turned from the brother and sister. The intimacy--solemnity almost--of the sick-room, the midnight hour, seemed to strike through Elizabeth's being, deepening and yet liberating emotion.
"Dear Philip! It is not for Mr. Anderson to answer you--it is for me. If he could give up his country--for happiness--even for love--I should never marry him--for--I should not love him any more."
Anderson turned to look at her. She had moved, and was now standing in front of Philip, her head thrown back a little, her hands lightly clasped in front of her. Her youth, her dress, her diamonds, combined strangely with the touch of high passion in her shining eyes, her resolute voice.
"You see, dear Philip, I love George Anderson--"
Anderson gave a low cry--and, moving to her side, he grasped her hand. She gave it to him, smiling--and went on: