"This will make you well. We're going away when the very next expedition arrives."
But still Varona protested. "No, no! Who am I? I have nothing to offer, nothing to give. I'm poorer than a peon."
"Thank goodness, I can do all the giving! I've never told you, Esteban, but I'm quite rich." Holding the man away, she smiled into his eyes. "Yes, richer than I have any right to be. I had no need to come to Cuba; it was just the whim of an irresponsible, spoiled young woman. I gave a huge amount of money to the New York Junta and that's why I was allowed to come."
"You're not a—a trained nurse?"
"Oh, dear, no! Except when it amuses me to pretend."
"How strange!" The invalid was dazed, but after a moment he shook his head. "It is hard to say this, but I don't know whether you really love me or whether your great heart has been touched. You have learned my feelings, and perhaps think in this way to make me well. Is that it?"
"No, no! I'm thoroughly selfish and must have what I want. I want you. So don't let's argue about it." Norine tenderly enfolded the weak figure in her arms, "You must, you SHALL get well or—I shall die, too."
"I haven't the strength to refuse," Esteban murmured. "And yet, how can
I leave Cuba? What right have I to accept happiness and leave Rosa—"
This was a subject which Norine dreaded, a question to which she knew no answer. She was not in a mood to discuss it, and made no attempt to do so. Instead, she laid the invalid upon his pillow, saying:
"Leslie is waiting to wish you joy and a quick recovery. May I ask him in?"