Toward the middle of January the fever which had burnt John Estridge for a week fell a degree or two.
Palla, who had called twice a day at the Memorial Hospital, was seated that morning in a little room 309 near the disinfecting plant, talking to Ilse, who had just laid aside her mask.
“You look rather ill yourself,” said Ilse in her cheery, even voice. “Is anything worrying you, darling?”
“Yes.... You are.”
“I!” exclaimed the girl, really astonished. “Why?”
“Sometimes,” murmured Palla, “my anxiety makes me almost sick.”
“Anxiety about me!–––”
“You know why,” whispered Palla.
A bright flush stained Ilse’s face: she said calmly: