If she had really been false to her charge, if she had actually flinched and faltered at the crucial moment, had truly been the coward, this deception which had been thrust upon her at the moment of her return to the house, this part which it was so easy to play, would have been a hideous and unspeakable hypocrisy.  But Lloyd had not faltered, had not been false.  In her heart of hearts she had been true to herself and to her trust.  How would she deceive her companions then by allowing them to continue in the belief of her constancy, fidelity, and courage?  What she hid from them, or rather what they could not see, was a state of things that it was impossible for any one but herself to understand.  She could not—­no woman could—­bring herself to confess to another woman what had happened that day at Medford.  It would be believed that she could have stayed at her patient’s bedside if she had so desired.  No one who did not know Bennett could understand the terrible, vast force of the man.

Try as she would, Lloyd could not but think first of herself at this moment.  Bennett was ignored, forgotten.  Once she had loved him, but that was all over now.  The thought of Ferriss’s death, for which in a manner she had been forced to be responsible, came rushing to her mind from time to time, and filled her with a horror and, at times, even a perverse sense of remorse, almost beyond words.  But Lloyd’s pride, her self-confidence, her strength of character and independence had been dearer to her than almost anything in life.  So she told herself, and, at that moment, honestly believed.  And though she knew that her pride had been humbled, it was not gone, and enough of it remained to make her desire and strive to keep the fact a secret from the world.  It seemed very easy.  She would only have to remain passive.  Circumstances acted for her.

Miss Douglass returned, followed by Rownie carrying a tray.  When the mulatto had gone, after arranging Lloyd’s supper on a little table near the couch, the fever nurse drew up a chair.

“Now we can talk,” she said, “unless you are too tired.  I’ve been so interested in this case at Medford.  Tell me what was the immediate cause of death; was it perforation or just gradual collapse?”

“It was neither,” said Lloyd quickly.  “It was a hemorrhage.”

She had uttered the words with as little consciousness as a phonograph, and the lie had escaped her before she was aware.  How did she know what had been the immediate cause of death?  What right had she to speak?  Why was it that all at once a falsehood had come so easy to her, to her whose whole life until then had been so sincere, so genuine?

“A hemorrhage?” repeated the other.  “Had there been many before then?  Was there coma vigil when the end came?  I—­”

“Oh,” cried Lloyd with a quick gesture of impatience, “don’t, don’t ask me any more.  I am tired—­nervous; I am worn out.”

“Yes, of course you must be,” answered the fever nurse.  “We won’t talk any more about it.”