One morning he sat up and said:
“Please let me do that, Sister—I hate to see you working for me—though I love to see you . . .” and then had been gently pushed back on to his pillow as, with a laugh, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker said:
“That’s what I’m here for—to work I mean,” and patted his wasted hand. (He was such a dear boy, and so appreciative of what one could do for him. It made one’s heart ache to see him such a wasted skeleton.)
The time came when he could sit in a long chair with leg-rest arms, and read a book; but he found that most of his time was spent in thinking of the Sister and in the joys of retrospection and anticipation. He had to put aside, quite resolutely, all thought of the day when he would be declared fit for duty and be “returned to store.” Think of a banda at Butindi and of this white room with its beautiful outlook across the strait to the palm-feathered shore; think of Ali as one’s cup-bearer and of this sweet angelic Englishwoman. . . . Better not think of it at all. . . .
It was quite a little shock to him, one day, to notice that she wore a wedding-ring. . . . He had never thought of that. . . . He felt something quite like a little twinge of jealousy. . . . He was sure the man must be a splendid fellow though, or she would never have married him. . . . How old would she be? It was no business of his, and it was not quite gentlemanly to speculate on such a subject—but somehow he had not thought of her as “an old married woman.” Not that married women are necessarily older than unmarried women. . . . A silly expression—“old” married women. He had imagined her to be about his own generation so to speak. Possibly a little older than himself—in years—but years don’t make age really. . . . Fancy her being married! Well, well, well! . . . But what did that matter—she was just as much the charming and beautiful woman for whom he would have laid down his life in sheer gratitude. . . .
* * * * *
A man gets like this after fever. He is off his balance, weak, neurasthenic, and devoid of the sense of proportion. He waxes sentimental, and is to be forgiven.
* * * * *
But there is not even this excuse for Mrs. Stayne-Brooker.
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