“You are unhappy when you are not doing things for others, Madame,” I suggested.
“I am a discontented woman,” she said; “I always have been. And I am unhappy when I think of all those who were dear to me and whom I loved. Many are dead, and many are scattered and homeless.”
“I have often thought of your sorrows, Madame,” I said.
“Which reminds me that I should not burden you with them, my good friend, when you are recovering. Do you know that you have been very near to death?”
“I know, Madame,” I faltered. “I know that had it not been for you I should not be alive to-day. I know that you risked your life to save my own.”
She did not answer at once, and when I looked at her she was gazing out over the flowers on the lawn.
“My life did not matter,” she said. “Let us not talk of that.”
I might have answered, but I dared not speak for fear of saying what was in my heart. And while I trembled with the repression of it, she was changed. She turned her face towards me and smiled a little.
“If you had obeyed me you would not have been so ill,” she said.
“Then I am glad that I did not obey you.”