tongueless and mentally dazed. They were cool and sweet and not at
all excited. And he knew that she spoke the truth. Not by a quiver
of those lovely lashes would she betray either fear or horror if
he popped off right there. It was astonishing.

Something like resentment shot for an instant into his bewildered
brain. Then it was gone, and in a flash it came upon him that she
was but uttering his own philosophy of life, showing him life's
cheapness, life's littleness, the absurdity of being distressed by
looking upon the light as it flickered out. And she was doing it,
not as a philosopher, but with the beautiful unconcern of a child.

Suddenly, as if impelled by an emotion in direct contradiction to
her apparent lack of sympathy, she reached out a hand and placed
it on Kent's forehead. It was another shock. It was not a
professional touch, but a soft, cool little pressure that sent a
comforting thrill through him. The hand was there for only a
moment, and she withdrew it to entwine the slim fingers with those
of the others in her lap.

"You have no fever," she said. "What makes you think you are
dying?"

Kent explained what was happening inside him. He was completely
shunted off his original track of thought and anticipation. He had
expected to ask for at least a mutual introduction when his
visitor came into his room, and had anticipated taking upon
himself the position of a polite inquisitor. In spite of O'Connor,
he had not thought she would be quite so pretty. He had not
believed her eyes would be so beautiful, or their lashes so long,