Her heart swelled, and beat heavily with the sense of ownership and the dread of losing what was her own; it was a fear more poignant than any other of the fears which she had suffered in a long chain since she fell asleep in Randal Bellamy's study—only last night!
Was it death—death which she had seen once already to-day—was it that coming to her here against her heart? Or was it but with him as it had been with her in the Brundage bedroom—the awful need of sleep.
She bent her ear close over his lips, and heard the breath long, and regular.
She forgot his wasted features in the beauty of the long eyelashes touching his cheeks; and just because she could not see what the lids were hiding, she remembered her walk down through the wood below the Manor House, and that foolish phrase, "blue as a hummin-bird's weskit," which had then haunted her, till she found him playing with Gorgon in the road; and from that to her bewilderment twenty-four hours later, when he had called the dog Zola. She had reproved the enormity of the syncopated pun, but Dick had insisted that Zola fitted an animal whose expression was always either disgusted or disgusting.
She must not keep him here, so near the stone cottage, and the road. They might be seen.
He had offered her brandy. Carefully she felt his coat. The right outside pocket she could not reach, but there was a hard lump in it, pressing against her cramped knees.
She leaned over sideways, twisted her legs in front of her, and made a lap into which, by edging away from the heavy body, she let the head slide gently. She got the flask out, pulled the metal cup from its base, and into it poured a little brandy. With tender force she managed at last to send a trickle of the spirit into his mouth.
He choked, tried to swallow, coughed violently, and then opened his eyes.
"I told you," he said, "that you needed brandy, not to kill me with it. What's happened?"
"You were walking in your sleep," she began.