“Steve, you––you’re not––not joking with me?”
Lower and lower, still in silence, dropped the man’s chin.
“Steve,” in a steadier voice, “please answer me. You’re not joking?”
“Joking!” At last the query had pierced the fear-dulled brain. “Joking! God, no! It’s real, real, deadly real, that’s what ... Oh, Mollie––!” Instinctively, as a child, the man’s head had gone to the girl’s lap. Though never before had they spoken of love or of marriage, neither noted the incongruity now. “It’s all over. We’ll never be married, never again get out into the country together, never even see the green grass next Spring––at least I won’t––never.... Oh, Mollie, Mollie!” The man’s back rose and fell spasmodically. His voice broke. “Mollie, make me forget; I can’t bear to think of it. Can’t! Can’t!”
Not a muscle of the girl’s body stirred; she made no sound. No one in advance would have believed it possible, but it was true. Five minutes passed. The man became quiet. 242
“Steve,” the voice was very even, “what else did the doctor say?”
“Eh?” It was the doddering query of an old man.
The girl repeated the question, slowly, with infinite patience, as though she were speaking to a child.
“What else did the doctor say?”
Her tranquillity in a measure calmed the man.