“Gwen, wake up, dear, wake up, sweetheart!”
He wondered the next second “why the devil” he said it.
Perhaps the absurdity of the words struck Gwen’s grim sense of humour, she certainly stirred uneasily and made a feeble pathetic little try to throw up the limp hand that lay on the quilt.
Strange moved back under cover of his curtain.
“Good!” said the doctor, “try again.” He was watching Strange’s face with some interest.
“He has aged ten years in eight hours, poor devil!” he thought, then he took a long survey of his patient, “I wonder if she is worth it all, she is a trifle too superb for me! She looks like one of those women who keep their flesh too much under.”
Gradually Gwen’s stirrings grew stronger and more frequent, and at last she opened her eyes slowly and looked out with vague questioning.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“You have been ill, dear.”
“Ill?” she murmured perplexedly. “I want light.”