tragic screens! Christopher knew them so well, and all that they signified, a frail barrier erected about a little flame that was flickering towards its end.
He turned back one of the flaps, replaced it,—and was with her.
"Mary"
She was white as the pillow, her eyes and hair looking strangely dark; he had never thought that eyes and hair could look so dark. Her lips were bloodless. And from the moment he appeared, her eyes fixed themselves upon him and never wavered, tragic eyes, possessive, caressing, poignant. She smiled very faintly, and her smile made Kit think of the wind stirring the pale face of a flower.
He went on one knee beside the bed, fearing to touch her.
"Mary."
Her right hand moved jerkily and touched his cheek.
"Dear boy"
"O,—my dear,—how?"
"Don't—don't let us talk of that. It's—all over, Kit, dear, all over. Put your arm—under—my head."
He did it—very gently, his eyes hot, his mouth quivering. She sighed; she lay and looked at him.
"It's better—dear—like this. I'm—I'm not frightened. You see—I knew"
"What did you know?"
"That things couldn't go on—always. But, Kit,—say I made you—happy, just a little"
He lost himself.
"Nobody else will be. O, my God, my dear, I have loved you so much,—and now"
"Dear boy, don't cry. Oh"
She caught a little breath of anguish.
"I'm—all—crushed"
"Dear,—have they given you anything, morphia?"
"I wouldn't have it; I—I was afraid of going to sleep—before"
He kissed her very gently, got up, and came out from behind the screen. The house-surgeon and the nurse were talking by the ward door. Kit went towards them; he did not see any of the other patients; the world was blurred.
"She wants morphia,—she said she wouldn't"
The house-surgeon looked at the floor.
