And stranger than all was that, now that he did see that she was lost in
love of him, there came to him, not sorrow and humility and abasement,
but something else that he struggled in vain against--something entirely
strange and new, that, had he analysed it, he would have found to be
petulance and irritation and resentment and ungentleness. The sudden
selfish prompting mastered him before he was aware. He all but gave it
words. What was she doing there at all? Why was she not getting on with
her own work? Why was she here interfering with his? Who had given her
this guardianship over him that lately she had put forward so
assertively?--"Changed?" It was she, not himself, who had changed....

But by the time she had opened her eyes again he had overcome his
resentment sufficiently to speak gently, albeit with reserve.

"I wish you would let me take you to a doctor."

She rose.

"No, thank you, Paul," she said. "I'll go now. If I need a dressing I'll
get one; take the other hand, please. Good-bye--"

He did not attempt to detain her. He walked with her to the foot of the
stairs. Half-way along the narrow alley she turned.

"It would be a long way to come if you happened not to be in," she said;
"I'll send you a postcard the next time."

At the gate she turned again.