“Since you ask, I do. But don’t tell her that I gave her away, or I shall get into trouble.”
“How could you bother her about me? It’s disgusting.”
“Because you did nothing but call out for her, if you must know, and beg her to forgive you. Nothing I could do would make you leave off, and at last I thought she might at any rate help you to die quietly. There was a norther blowing, so she could not get round from Skandalo by boat, but she came across on a mule, and she and I sat up with you a whole night. You didn’t know her, but her being there kept you quiet and gave you your chance. Don’t look so sick. Most men would feel some slight approach to gratitude.”
“What is it to you what I feel?” demanded Wylie, so fiercely that the doctor jumped. “No, don’t go off like that. If I am savage, just try to realise what it feels like to have coals of fire not merely heaped, but simply shovelled, on your head.”
“Ah, I see!” said the surgeon sagely, and Wylie was left to his own meditations. When Zoe came again, two days later, he had been promoted to sitting up for the greater part of the morning, and he informed her of the improvement with pride. She told him in return that Maurice had recognised Eirene, and had been able to answer questions, but neither his good news nor her own seemed to have much effect upon her mood. She moved about the verandah, talking restlessly, and Wylie saw the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. It was not until he hinted that the task of following her movements was bad for his head that she came, full of compunction, to sit down beside him.
“If I asked you to promise me something, would you do it?” she asked impulsively, with her hand in his.
“Not without knowing what it was.”
“Not even for me?”
“Not even for you. Would you if I asked for a promise?”
“That’s different. You would be sure to want something horrid, while I only want what is for your good. You have nothing to thank the British Government for—nothing——”