"You are certainly very stupid."
"No, I'm a coward."
"What are you afraid of?"
He leaned back as far as he could, trying to see her face.
"I am afraid you pity me—and don't love me," he said.
He breathed hard after that, as if he had run a mile.
"I am not modest enough to pity you," she said, softly, "though no doubt you are deserving of pity."
"Marion," he whispered, "for God's sake, don't. I'm too blind with anxiety to read riddles. Tell me straight—do you love me? Have I even the ghost of a chance?"
"Do you believe in ghosts?" asked she, with trembling laughter, and, bending forward, with a hand on either of his thin shoulders, she pressed her cheek to his.
While love had his innings in the sick-room, below curiosity led the feet of Mr. Cuddlehead toward the officers' quarters on the outskirts of the town. The night was fine, and not oppressively close. A breeze from the hills made liquid stir in the higher foliage. Cuddlehead felt in his blood a hint of something unusual, as he took his way through the President's wide gardens, and out to the road. No sentinel paced, sabre at shoulder, before the little guard-house. The troopers stood in groups along the street, smoking and talking. The smoke of their pungent cigarettes drifted on the air, and the murmur of their voices rang with a low note of menace. Unmolested, Cuddlehead reached the long white building where the officers of this inconsiderable army lodged and messed. Through the open windows glowed a subdued light from the shaded lamps above the table. The compassing verandas were but partially illuminated by the glow from within, and silent men stood here and there in the shadows, motionless and expectant. At Cuddlehead's approach, the nearer ones hesitated for a moment, and then drew away.