“No, no, please,” cried Annette. “Jack didn't tire me. He comforts me.”
“But Malcolm will tire you,” said Adrien. “Do you really want to see him?”
A faint colour came up into the beautiful face of her patient.
“Yes, Adrien, I really want to see him. I am sure he will do me good. You will let him come, please?” The dark eyes were shining with another light, more wistful, more tender.
“Is he here, Adrien?”
“Is he here?” echoed Adrien scornfully. “Has he been anywhere else the last seven days?”
“Poor Malcolm,” said the girl, the tenderness in her voice becoming protective. “I have been very bad to him, and he loves me so. Oh, he is just mad about me!” A little smile stole round the corners of her mouth.
“Oh, you needn't tell me that, Annette,” said Adrien. “It is easy for you to make men mad about you.”
“Not many,” said the girl, still softly smiling.
McNish went toward the door of the sick room as if approaching a holy shrine, walking softly and reverently.