'Yes.'
'Give him my grateful thanks, darling,—and—and—my blessing.'
Nelly hid her face against him, and he felt the convulsion of tearless sobbing that passed through her.
'Poor Nelly!'—he said again, touching her hand tenderly. Then after another pause—'Sit there, darling, where I can see you—your dear head, and your eyes, and your pretty neck. You must go to bed soon, you know—but just a little while! Now tell me what you have been doing. Talk to me. I won't talk. I'll rest—but I shall hear. That's so wonderful—that I can hear you. I've been living in such a queer world—no tongue—no ears—no mind, hardly—only my eyes.'
She obeyed him by a great effort. She talked to him—of what, she hardly knew!—about her months in London and Torquay—: about her illness—the farm—Hester Martin—and Cicely.
When she came to speak of her friendship with Cicely, he smiled in surprise, his eyes still shut.
'That's jolly, dearest. You remember, I didn't like her. She wasn't at all nice to you—once. But thank her for me—please.'
'She's here now, George, she brought me here. She wouldn't let me come alone.'
'God bless her!' he said, under his breath. 'I'll see her—to-morrow. Now go on talking. You won't mind if I go to sleep? They won't let you stop here, dear. You'll be upstairs. But you'll come early—won't you?'
They gave him morphia, and he went to sleep under her eyes. Then the night nurse came in, and the surgeon from the hospital opposite, with Howson. And Cicely took Nelly away.