The look on her face was peculiarly childish, as she drove out the lines of anguish in a superhuman effort made for him. And the yearning there brought back again that thought he had voiced before, that night—why couldn't the child have had a chance?
The doctor was feverishly mixing another potent drink.
Van bent down and kissed her, indulgently.
"Force her to take it!" cried the doctor desperately. "Force her to take it!"
"Queenie," Van said, "you've got to take this stuff."
Her hand had found his and clutched it with galvanic strength.
"Don't—make me," she begged, closing her eyes in a species of ecstacy that no man may understand. "I'd rather—not—Van—please. Only about a minute now. Ain't it funny—that love—can burn you—up?" Her grip had tightened on his hand.
The doctor ran to the window, which he found already opened. He ran back in a species of frenzy.
"Make her take it, make her take it! God!" he said. "Not to do anything—not to do a thing!"
Queenie smiled at Van again—terribly. Her fingers felt like iron rods, pressing into his flesh. As if to complete her renunciation she dropped his hand abruptly. She mastered some violent convulsion that left the merest flicker of her life.