She flushed, and fidgeted perilously on the window-sill.
"No, Louis. But--after last night--I don't like to see you lying here
like this," she began.
"I know it's boring for you, my pet. Marcella, come and sit on the edge
of the bed. We can talk better if you're near me."
"No, I'll stay here," she said decidedly. "And it's not boring for me.
It's--" She was going to say "degrading" but stopped in time.
"You know, I think I'd be all right," he went on, "if I got up and went
out now. But I can't be sure. I don't want to hurt you again, darling."
"I know, my dear. But I can't help thinking this is a negative thing. If
you had something to do--something that would interest you so much you
couldn't even think about whisky."
"I've got that something in you, when you're as sweet as you were last
night," he said softly. She felt sickened for a minute. The Spear in her
hand wavered; it seemed to be turning to a chain again. A chain for her,
a Spear for him--she said quietly:
"I like taking care of you, Louis. I'm not thinking of myself at all.
Only I can't help wishing you'd got pneumonia, or a broken leg or
something, so that you could stay in bed sort of--honourably."
"It's worth while, if I get better, isn't it, my pet?" he said, slowly.
"_Anything's_ worth while--if you get better," she said.
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