the game is up," Ingolby remarked with forced cheerfulness.
"He won't be asking for any more."

"It's time for your milk and brandy," she said suddenly, emotion
subsiding and a look of purpose coming into her face. She poured out the
liquid, and gave the glass into his hand. His fingers touched hers.

"Your hands are cold," she said to him. "Cold hands, warm heart," he
chattered.

A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. "I shouldn't
have thought it in your case," she said, and with sudden resolve turned
towards the door. "I'll send Madame Bulteel," she added. "I'm going for
a walk."

She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what she felt,
and yet, yet why did he not--she did not know what she wanted him to do.
It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what had been working
in him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was a woman. In her
heart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yet in her heart
of hearts she denied that he cared.

She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blind
man, back from the Valley of the Shadow. She had not reached the door,
however, when Madame Bulteel entered the room.

"The doctor from New York has come," she said, holding out a note from
Dr. Rockwell. "He will be here in a couple of hours."

Fleda turned back towards the bed.

"Good luck!" she said. "You'll see, it will be all right."

"Certainly I'll see if it's all right," he said cheerfully. "Am I tidy?
Have I used Pears' soap?" He would have his joke at his own funeral if
possible.

"There are two hours to get you fit to be seen," she rejoined with
raillery, infected by his cheerfulness in spite of herself. "Madame
Bulteel is very brave. Nothing is too hard for her!"

An instant later she was gone, with her heart telling her to go back to
him, not to leave him, but yet with a longing stronger still driving
her to the open world, to which she could breathe her trouble in great
gasps, as she sped onward through the woods and by the river. To love a
blind man was sheer madness, but in her was a superstitious belief that
he would see again. It prevailed against the doubts and terrors. It made
her resent his own sense of fatality, his own belief that he would be in
darkness all his days.

In the room where he awaited the verdict of the expert, he kept saying
to himself:

"She would have made everything else look cheap--if it could have been."