“You’ve got to let me see my best girl to-day, nurse,” he had said, forcing a smile.  “After that you shall have your own way and work your wicked will on me.”

And the nurse, thinking that perhaps a visit from his “best girl” might help to allay the new restlessness she found in him, had yielded, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

“Oh, Roger!” With a low cry of dismay Nan ran to the bed and slipped down on her knees beside it.

“It’s a rotten bit of luck, isn’t it?” he returned briefly.

She expected the fierce clasp of his arms about her and had steeled herself to submit to his kisses without flinching.  But he did not offer to kiss her.  Instead, pointing to a chair, he said quietly: 

“Pull up that chair—­I’m sorry I can’t offer to do it for you!—­and sit down.”

She obeyed, while he watched her in silence.  The silence lasted so long that at last, finding it almost unbearable, she broke it.

“Roger, I’m so—­so grieved to see you—­like this.”  She leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped tightly together.  “But don’t give up hope yet,” she went on earnestly.  “You’ve only had one specialist’s opinion.  He might easily be wrong.  After a time, you may be walking about again as well as any other man.  I’ve heard of such cases.”

“And I suppose you’re banking on the hope that mine’s one of them, so that you’ll not be tied to a helpless log for a husband.  Is that it?”

She shrank back, hurt to the core of her.  If he were to be always like this—­prey to a kind of ferocious suspicion of every word and act of hers, then the outlook for the future was dark indeed.  The burden of it would be more than she could bear.

Roger, seeing her wince, gestured apologetically.

“I didn’t mean quite all that,” he said quickly.  “I’m rather like a newly-caged wild beast—­savage even with its keeper.  Still, any woman might be forgiven for preferring to marry a sound man rather than a cripple.  You’re ready to go on with the deal, Nan?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she answered in a low voice.

“Have you realised all it means?  I’m none too amiable at the best of times”—­grimly.  “And my temper’s not likely to improve now I’m tied by the leg.  You’ll have to fetch and carry, and put up with all the whims and tantrums of a very sick man.  Are you really sure of yourself?”

“Quite sure.”

His hawk’s eyes flashed over her face, as though he would pierce through the veil of her grave and tranquil expression.

“Even though Peter Mallory’s free to marry you now?” he demanded suddenly.

“Peter!” The word came in a shrinking whisper.  She threw out her hands appealingly.  “Roger, can’t we leave the past behind?  We’ve each a good deal”—­her thoughts flew back to that dreadful episode in the improvised studio—­“a good deal to forgive.  Let us put the past quite away—­on the top shelf”—­with a wavering little laugh—­“and leave it there.  I’ve told you I’m willing to be your wife.  Let’s start afresh from that.  I’ll marry you as soon as you like.”