She had tried to be true to it,
that dead, lost thing, of which this man who came once a year to see her,
and now, lying with his life at stake in the hospital, was the repellent
ghost.
"Ah, you will not see him die?" she urged.
"It seems to move you greatly what happens to this man," he said, his
determined dark eyes searching hers, for she baffled him. If she could
feel so much for a, "casual," why not a little more feeling for him?
Suddenly, as he drew her eyes to him again, there came the conviction
that they were full of feeling for him. They were sending a message, an
appealing, passionate message, which told him more than he had ever heard
from her or seen in her face before. Yes, she was his! Without a spoken
word she had told him so. What, then, held her back? But women were a
race by themselves, and he knew that he must wait till she chose to have
him know what she had unintentionally conveyed but now.
"Yes, I am moved," she continued slowly. "Who can tell what this man
might do with his life, if it is saved! Don't you think of that? It
isn't the importance of a life that's at stake; it's the importance of
living; and we do not live alone, do we?"
His mind was made up.
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