"I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It was so like a funeral march."
"And you missed the end of the game?" George asked.
She nodded.
"When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't have happened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have."
But all George could think of was:
"Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty's eyes."
Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeral march.
His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness once more, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light. Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle.
He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned suspiciously on Green.
"He was overworked when he got hurt."