It was not always the same. Sometimes in the night it would be—"I tell you she's my wife. No, no, not the other. Awfully good joke, what? Mustn't lose my head, though; mustn't lose my head."
And Susan would lay her cheek against his in an agony lest he should hurt himself with his excitement.
"Sleep!" she would whisper, "oh, my dearest, lie still and sleep...."
"But I love her. Don't you know that? I can't marry my girl. Because I love her;—just because I love her—mustn't lose my head!"
Once after she had quieted him, and he had lain a little while motionless he called her.
"Are you there?" he said. His voice was so sensible that she trembled.
"Yes," she said softly, and he gave a sigh of content. But soon he was muttering again, and restless.
"She wants me to sleep," he was repeating, "she wants me to sleep."
No, he had not known who she was. She bent over him, smoothing his forehead with a tender and anxious hand. Sometimes her touch was magnetic.
"Yes," she said. "Hush, my dearest."