"And you wish to help me--you?"
The blood rushes to her cheeks. The situation is unbearable for a girl of delicate feelings; but who would be influenced by foolish prudery when it is a question of caring for a sick one whom no one else will care for?
"Has Mascha confessed to you?" she asks, softly.
"No."
"Is she perfectly conscious?"
"I do not know. She has not spoken a word since yesterday; she lies there with her face to the wall. She has a strong fever, but the doctor says it is of no importance; she will recover in two or three days. And I have not the courage to give her an opiate." He says all this in an unnatural, choked voice. "You wish to help me? How will you help me?" he groans defiantly and bitterly.
"Let me speak with her," begs Nita. "We have always loved each other, she and I."
"Yes, you were very good to her, I know; she has spoken to me of you; but you will only needlessly torment her--she will not speak. And of what use is it? Nothing can be done--nothing." He stamps his foot.
"Let me go to her--I have a suspicion, a clew. It sounds trite and foolish to say so, but if any one can help you, it is I."
For a moment he hesitates; then turning to go, he cries out: "Well, come then."