Tell me what is the matter," I persisted.
The little head turned restlessly on my coat sleeve, and the warmth
from the cheeks and lips came into my wrist. She seemed half
inclined to yawn, and the delicate left hand, with my ring flashing
on it, came to her lips and closed them when they had barely parted.
"People call it hysteria," she said at last. "It is a form of
hysteria now, but it did not begin with that. It was overstrain,
nervous breakdown, a collapse of the system. See my hand when I hold
it up, how it shakes? I can't control that, and my heart beats
wildly at the slightest exertion. I am exhausted, limp, Victor,
ironed out by the events of last year, very much like what your
collar would be without its starch!"
She was looking up at me now and half laughing. She had raised her
hand between me and the nearest lamp; it quivered violently, as she
said, and looked transparent and scarlet close against the light. I
caught it in mine and drew it up to my lips.
"Victor!" she said, indignantly, "release it! remember where we
are!"
"I don't care where we are!" I muttered, letting go her hand, but
not before I had kissed it passionately across the tiny knuckles and
in the palm. It fell nerveless into her lap; her face grew so
desperately pallid, even her lips, that I was startled.
"Lucia! What is the matter?"
The lids that seemed ready to sink over her eyes lifted again.
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