This sudden solution of steely strength into liquid weakness had on Eustace Hignett the stunning effects which the absence of the last stair has on the returning reveller creeping up to bed in the dark. It was as though his spiritual foot had come down hard on empty space and caused him to bite his tongue. Jane Hubbard had always been to him a rock of support. And now the rock had melted away and left him wallowing in a deep pool.
He wallowed gratefully. It had only needed this to brace him to the point of declaring his love. His awe of this girl had momentarily vanished. He felt strong and dashing. He scrambled down the bed and peered over the foot of it at her huddled form.
“Have some barley-water,” he urged. “Try a little barley-water.”
It was all he had to offer her except the medicine which, by the doctor’s instructions, he took three times a day in a quarter of a glass of water.
“Go away!” sobbed Jane Hubbard.
The unreasonableness of this struck Eustace.
“But I can’t. I’m in bed. Where could I go?”
“I hate you!”
“Oh, don’t say that!”
“You’re still in love with her!”