"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did."
"Well, yes—he never said much to me, only that it was an old—affair. Of course I could see how it was—more a responsibility, to him, than—"
"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will have to do the best they can. It's—well, I can't talk to her tonight, she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in and taken possession—after all, it's her house. She looks so—afraid, and angry at me too—I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than—oh, well, I'll have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important."
"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently.
They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her....
Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She started up.
XII
By next day the routine of life in these new circumstances was arranged. Mary had a couch in the study, the two nurses having their rooms upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the sickroom. Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in the young doctor's diagnosis and proposed method of treatment. Alone with Mary, he said: