It was selfish of me to insist. See . . what I've
made you suffer. But you don't . . blame me, do you, . . in your
heart?"

"Blame you, . . my best beloved? How can you ask it? I . . I worship
you," he added very low.

The extravagant word, reviving dear and imperishable memories, called
up a quivering smile, more heart-piercing than a cry: and Desmond,
putting a great restraint upon himself, enfolded her with one arm, and
kissed her softly, lingeringly, as one might kiss a child.

"My very Theo," she murmured, her voice breaking with love. "It has
been so perfect . . I suppose that's why . . Not three years yet;
and . . I can't bear . . to leave you behind, even for a little."

"You'll not do that, Honor," his voice had the level note of decision.
"If _you_ go, . . . I go too."

"No, no. You must wait . . for your boy."

Desmond set his teeth, and answered nothing. In the stress of anguish
he had forgotten his child.

Suddenly a convulsive shuddering ran through her, and her breath came
short and quick.

"Theo, . . what's happening?" she panted. "Where are you? Hold me.
Everything's . . slipping away."

It cut him to the heart to unclasp the fingers that clung to him;
though he was back again in a moment, holding weak brandy and water to
her lips.

"Drink it, Honor. For God's sake, drink it!" he commanded, a ring of
fear in his voice. For in that moment, a change, terrible and
significant, had come over her. His appeal produced no response, no
movement of lips or eyelids. Her face seemed to shrink and sharpen,
and change colour before his eyes. Her breath was cold as the air from
a cave.

He set down the wine-glass, and in the first shock and horror of it all
stood like a man turned to stone. Then common-sense pricked him back
to life, and to the necessity for immediate action. After so sharp an
attack, collapse would probably be severe and prolonged. He laid his
fingers on her pulse. It was rapid, and barely perceptible, but the
still small flutter of life was there.

He opened the verandah door, where Amar Singh and a very aggrieved
Aberdeen terrier had sat since morning, and issued a swift order for
hot water, mustard, warm turpentine; a grim repetition of the battle he
had fought out a week ago. But now he fought single-handed, while Amar
Singh and a small tremulous ayah, crouching beside a charcoal brazier
in the verandah, kept up a steady supply of his primitive needs.

Thus