"Patricia! what is the matter?" cried Bowen in alarm. "You haven't fainted, have you?"
She was conscious of the absurdity of the question. She opened her eyes with a curious fluttering movement of the lids, as if they were uncertain how long they could remain unclosed. A slow, tired smile played across her face, like a passing shaft of sunshine, then the lids closed again and the life seemed to go out of her body.
Bowen gently withdrew his arm and, rising, strode across to a table on which was a decanter of whisky and syphon of soda. With unsteady hands, he poured whisky and soda into a glass and, returning to Patricia, he passed his arm gently behind her head, placing the glass against her lips. She drank a little and then, with a shudder, turned her head aside. A moment later her eyes opened again. She looked round the room, then fixed her gaze on Bowen as if trying to explain to herself his presence. Gradually the colour returned to her cheeks and she sighed deeply. She shook her head as Bowen put the glass against her lips.
"I nearly fainted," she whispered, sighing again. "I've never done such a thing." Then after a pause she added, "I wonder what has happened. My head feels so funny."
"It's all my fault," said Bowen penitently. "I've waited so long, and I seemed to go mad. You will forgive me, dearest, won't you?" his voice was full of concern.
