“Three at night—and that was a woman’s voice, I don’t understand. Who are you?”
She told him again.
“Three o’clock at night—No, not Mornice—you’re Blanche—poor old Blanche! And yet so much seems to have happened since—and Blanche—I don’t know!”
Mornice started violently.
“Why do you call me Blanche?”
The quick sound of her voice roused the old man from his wanderings, for he turned, rose on his elbow, and looked at her.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” he said. “Why are you here?”
“You’ve been ill,” she replied. “Don’t you remember?”
“Ah, yes, yes, I remember now.”
“Tell me,” she begged. “A moment ago you called me Blanche.”