A slight color crept into the girl’s face. “You are so good. Ah! what should I have done—what can I say?” She stopped; there were tears in her eyes.
“Please say nothing—please forget it.”
“Forget!” Presently she continued, almost in a whisper, “I had so much to say to you, and now you are really here, I can think of nothing, only that you saved me.”
“Mademoiselle—I beg!”
She lay silent a moment more; then she raised herself from the sofa and held out her hand. His hand and eyes met hers.
“I thank you,” she said, “I can never forget.” Then she sank back among the white fluff of lace and fur. “I only learned this morning,” she went on, after a minute, “ who sat beside me all that night and bathed my arm, and gave me cooling drinks.”
Gethryn colored. “There was no one else to take care of you. I sent for my friend, Doctor Ducrot, but he was out of town. Then Dr Bouvier promised to come, and didn’t. The concierge was ill herself—I could not leave you alone. You know, you were a little out of your head with fright and fever. I really couldn’t leave you to get on by yourself.”
“No,” cried the girl, excitedly, “you could not leave me after carrying me out of that terrible crowd; yourself hurt, exhausted, you sat by my side all night long.”
Gethryn laid his hand on her. “Hélène,” he said, half jesting, “I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances—and forgotten.”
She looked at him shyly. “Don’t forget,” she said.