The head physician had gone to bed. At first they refused to disturb
him. But I insisted.
It was half an hour before he arrived. I drew a chair to Heloise's
bedside, talking with her and rubbing her head and her forearms while we
waited.
She gave every evidence of rather rapid improvement. She was weak, of
course; and so nervous that her body would twitch for no reason, and the
slightest unexpected sound would give her a start. But the pupils of
her eyes, that had been very small, were widening out to something like
their normal size. And behind the gaze that she kept turning to me and
the occasional faint suggestion about her mouth of a gentle but sad
and enigmatic smile, I felt, even then, that she was doing some sober
thinking.
After a time she said:
“I have clung to one thought to-day. My life has been all a blunder. But
it has helped a little to know that you have your scales, Anthony--and
that you would n't have them except for me.”
I went limp at this. For it had made me feel sound and strong to be
caring for her, and now her words plunged me back into the depths of
that dreadful day. I dropped my chin on my hands.
“Anthony!” said she. “What is it?”