“Poor old fellow,” she said, with a brave smile. “If they can’t do anything for me in London he will have to lead me about. It’ll keep him out of mischief.”
“Don’t say that, darling!” I groaned.
“Poor old Ron,” she said tenderly. “I believe it’s worse for you than it is for me. And now that Mary has left us for a bit I want to say something to you, dear, while I can. You mustn’t think I don’t understand what this will mean to you, dear. I want you to know, darling, that I hope always to be your very great friend, but I don’t expect you to marry a blind girl.”
I shall certainly not tell the reader what I said in reply to that generous and noble statement.
“Besides, dear,” I concluded eventually, “you will soon be able to see again.” And so I tried to assure her, till presently Mary returned. And then we made her comfortable, and I read to her in the darkened carriage until at last my poor darling fell into a gentle sleep.
But twenty-six hours later, when I had seen Myra safely back to her aunt’s house from Harley Street, I staggered up the stairs to Dennis’s rooms in Panton Street a broken man.
Dennis opened the door to me himself.
“Ronald!” he cried, “what has happened?”
“Hello, old man,” I said weakly; “I’m very, very tired.”