“I'm tired of being alone—tired.”
“I know...”
“Why shouldn't we try the real thing—go all the way—”
“You mean—marriage. Peter?”
“I mean marriage, Grace.”
Very tired, very thoughtful, still in the costume and make-up of the part, kneeling there beside him, she considered this. Finally she lifted her eyes to his. “I'm willing, Peter,” she said. “I won't try to deceive myself. It is what I have wanted.”
The doctor came then; bandaged him, and advised quiet for a few days, preferably in a hospital. When he had gone, she cried with a half smile: “You're not going to his old hospital, Peter. You're coming home with me.”
He lay there in a beatific dream while she changed to her street clothes.
They were ready to go. She had ordered an ambulance, and they were waiting. There was a knock.
“Come in,” she called.