"You'll be right again soon, Pat."
She moved her lips.
"To-morrow, do you think?"
"Not to-morrow perhaps, but in a few days.
Then you ought to be able to get up and we'll drive home.
We shouldn't have come down here, the air is much too strong for you—" "Yes," she whispered. "But I'm not sick, Robby.
It was just an accident—"
I looked at her.
Didn't she really know, then, that she was ill?
Or did she not want to know?
Her eyes moved restlessly to and fro.
"You don't need to be afraid—" she whispered.
I did not understand what she meant at first and why it should be important that I particularly should not be afraid.
I saw only that she was agitated, her eyes had a strangely , troubled, urgent expression.
And suddenly a thought came to me.
I knew what she was thinking: she imagined I was afraid of her because she was ill.
"Good gracious, Pat," said I, "is that the reason, perhaps, you never told me anything?"
She did not answer, but I saw that that was it.
"Damn it all," said I; "what do you take me for, then?"
I stooped over her.
"Now lie quite still a moment, but don't move." I kissed her.
Her lips were dry and hot.
When I straightened up I saw that she was crying.
She was crying soundlessly, with wide-open eyes, and her face did not move. The tears just welled out.
"For God's sake, Pat—"
"I'm so happy," said she.
I stood there and looked at her.
It was only a word, but a word I had never heard said like that before.
I had known women, but they had only been fleeting affairs, adventures, a gay hour occasionally, a lonely evening, escape from oneself, from despair, from vacancy.
And I had never even wanted anything else, for I had learned that there is nothing else one can trust but oneself, and one's comrades perhaps.
Now I suddenly saw that I could be something to someone, simply because I was there, and that that person was happy because I was with her.
Said like that, it sounds very simple; but when you think about it, it is a tremendous thing, a thing that knows no end.
It is something that can break and transform one.
It is love and yet something more —something for which one can live.
A man cannot live for love.
But for a human being, perhaps . . .
I wanted to say something, but I could not.
It is difficult to find words when one really has something to say.
And even if one knows the right words, then one is ashamed to say them.
All these words belong to other, earlier centuries.
Our time has not the words yet to express its feelings.
We can only be offhand—anything else rings false.
"Pat," said I, "brave old lad—" At that moment Jaffe entered.
He immediately took in the situation.
"Nice behaviour," he growled.
"I guessed something of the sort."
I was about to make some excuse, but he turned me out without more ado.
Chapter XVII
It was two weeks later.
Pat had so far recovered that we could travel home.