“He’s been too damned loyal,” said Christy. “My lady Joyce chucked him as she would a broken toy. Why send for her? Perhaps she won’t come, anyhow. The little bitch!”
“We’ll give her the chance,” said Janet, and she wrote out the telegram.
“We’ll play the game, for Bertram’s sake,” she said later. “It may be the last thing we can do for him. Another visitor may come before his wife gets here.”
“Is it as bad as that?” he asked.
“You know what typhus means. It burns quick. Oh, my dear, I think my love is dying!”
She wept a little, and Christy leaned over her and put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Courage!” She took hold of his hand and held it tight.
“Old Plesiosaurus! You’re a good friend in distress.”
“But not a lucky lover!” he answered gloomily.
“When we set up house together,” she said, “you’ll marvel at your luck!”
She laughed in her old gay way, even though her eyes were still wet with tears, and Christy was comforted by the promise of her words, and worshipful before this woman whose spirit was so honest and so kind. Her love for Bertram made no difference to him. Her comradeship was gift enough.