IV
MRS. WHITAKER
He lived through a long, bad quarter hour, his own tensed nerves twanging in sympathy with the girl's sobbing—like telegraph wires singing in a gale—his mind busy with many thoughts, thoughts strangely new and compelling, wearing
a fresh complexion that lacked altogether the colouring of self-interest.
He mixed a weak draught of brandy and water and returned to the bedside. The
storm was passing in convulsive gasps ever more widely spaced, but still the girl
lay with her back to him.
"If you'll sit up and try to drink this," he suggested quietly, "I think you'll feel a good deal better."
Her shoulders moved spasmodically; otherwise he saw no sign that she heard.
"Come—please," he begged gently.
She made an effort to rise, sat up on the bed, dabbed at her eyes wit
