Your bent, like mine, was for some reason a sad one, and what you played reflected your mood, stirring me deeply and making me almost forget my misery. Presently, however, I was seized with a paroxysm of coughing; and when I had recovered enough to be conscious of anything, I found you standing by me, looking both startled and compassionate.
“You are ill, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, anxiously.
“It is nothing,” I managed to articulate.
“Can I do anything for you?” you asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, rising, more wretched than ever, because knowing how little I deserved your sympathy.
“It would be a pleasure to help you, Dr. Hartzmann, for I have never been able to show any gratefulness for your kindness over my book,” you went on, with a touch of timidity in your tones, as if you were asking a favor rather than conferring one.
Won by your manner, before I knew what I was doing, I spoke. “Miss Walton,” I burst out, “you see before you the most miserable being conceivable, and you can save me from the worst anguish I am suffering!”
Your eyes enlarged in surprise, both at my vehemence and at what I had uttered, while you stood looking at me, with slightly parted lips; then you said sweetly, “Tell me what I can do for you.”
I had spoken without thought, only conscious that I must try in some way to save you. For a moment I hesitated, and then exclaimed, “I beg of you not to marry Mr. Whitely!”
Like a goddess you drew yourself up, even before you could have appreciated the full import of my foolish speech, and never have I seen you look more beautiful or queenly than as you faced me. After a brief silence you answered, “You can hardly realize what you are saying, Dr. Hartzmann.”