"You are wronging me!" repeated Isaacson—"wronging me shamefully!"
Was he going? Yes, he supposed so. Yet he did not go.
"It's not a question of wronging any one," she said. "Facts are facts."
Her face was ravaged with physical misery. There was a battle going on between the sleeping draught she had taken and her will to be sleepless. She moved her shoulders again, with a sort of shudder, sideways.
"Nigel doesn't want you," she said.
"How can you say that? It's not true."
"It is true. Isn't it, Doctor Hartley? Didn't my husband—"
She yawned again, and put down her hand on the back of a chair to which she held tightly. "Didn't he ask you to remain on board and look after the case?"
"Certainly!" cried the young man, eagerly drinking in her returning favour. "Certainly!"
"Didn't he ask you to 'save him,' as he called it, poor, dear fellow?"