Lavinia’s eyes race through the record, and, having done so, raise themselves to Binning’s. Passionately alive as she is to deeds of daring, at this moment the desire to find something consoling to say to the hero’s friend is even more prominent in her mind and look than admiration of the valiant act.
“It says ‘severely,’ not ‘dangerously’” is her low-voiced comment; “and even ‘dangerously’ does not always mean mortally. You were put in as ‘dangerously.’”
He thanks her with an eye-flash for the recollection; but a moment later his hands, so quiet in their patience generally, are uneasily pulling at the embroidered coverlet, which Féodorovna has contributed from her treasures to his luxury, and which Nurse Blandy will call a “bed-spread.”
“I cannot think why they do not let me get up. Roots has promised that I shall be able to return to duty by the end of May; and here we are at the beginning!”
The end of May! It is, then, to the same spot in time that his eyes and heart are directed, as are her own; but with how unimaginable a difference! To him the end of May is to bring release, liberty, return to the “bullet-swept zones,” to the cold veldt, the ambush, and the sniping. Yes, but also to the comradeship after which his soul is lusting. While to her!
“May is young yet,” she says, forcing her lips into a reassuring smile. “Dr. Roots has twenty-five days in which to keep his word.”
His hands cease their restless plucking at the counterpane, and a change passes over his face. Has he divination to read beneath the mask of her smile? she asks herself with a sort of terror.
“Twenty-five days!” he repeats softly. “They are a great many; and yet I can fancy their seeming very few.”
Her self-command does not go so far as to furnish her with a comment upon this thrilling truism; and the air upon which his next words steal out seems to have been stilled to receive them.
“I wonder upon how many of those twenty-five I shall have a sight of you?”