“Do you care to have me?”
“Yes, I do.”
There was a silence; and when his voice sounded again it had altered:
“I do not think you would care to see me, Sylvia. I—they say I am—I have—changed—since my—since a slight illness. I am not over it yet, not cured—not very well yet; and a little tired, you see—a little shaken. I am leaving New York to—to try once more to be cured. I expect to be well—one way or another—”
“Stephen, where are you going? Answer me!”
“I can't answer you.”
“Is your illness serious?”
“A—it is—it requires some—some care.”
Her fingers tightening around the receiver whitened to the delicate nails under the pressure. Mute, struggling with the mounting impulse, voice and lip unsteady, she still spoke with restraint:
“You say you require care? And what care have you? Who is there with you? Answer me!”