Her eyes, steady and deep-lighted, still did not judge him, still pathetically wondered at him.
“Marcia!” he broke out. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you. I have n’t had anything in my heart—”
“Please!”
He stopped, appealing to her with his look.
“I think you have to think of Eli Wade.”
Jeremy winced and was silent. Their car pulled up at the Pritchard gate. She got out, but did not ask him to come in.
“The worst of it is that it’s hurt you,” he muttered. “I did n’t know that you cared so much about him.”
“It was not he that I cared so much about,” returned Marcia steadily. “It was you.”
She turned and passed into the house. Try as he might, on his way to the hospital to see Andrew Galpin, Jeremy could derive from that low-toned avowal neither hope nor comfort for a sick heart and a grilling conscience.
The doctors would not let him see Galpin.