He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow.  His first thought, upon opening his eyes, was that he must close them again as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue.  To lie with one’s head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokes your forehead and cries over you and begs you for her sake not to die, is too precious a delusion to lose.  But the opening of one’s eyes is a mistake under such circumstances, and he had made it.  The angel’s next remark was entirely unromantic and practical.

“Are you better?” she asked.  “You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

Her patient’s reply was also a question, and irrelevant.

“Do you care?” he asked faintly.

“Are you better?” she asked in return.

“Did you get my note?  The note I put under the door?”

“Answer me.  Are you all right again?”

“You answer me.  Did you get my note?”

“Yes. . . .  Don’t try to get up.  You’re not strong enough yet.  You must wait here while I go and get you some—­”

“Don’t go!” He almost shouted it.  “If—­if you do I’ll—­I’ll—­I think I’m going to faint again.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.  And I must go and get you some brandy or something.  Stay just where you are.”

“Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I’ll go with you, if I have to crawl.  Maybe I can’t walk, but I swear I’ll crawl after you on my hands and knees unless you answer my question.  Do you care enough for me to wait?”

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, at the breakers beyond.  Then she looked down again at him.

“Yes,” she said. . . .  “Oh, are you going to faint again?  Don’t!  Please don’t!”

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late “John Brown,” opened his eyes.  “I am not going to faint,” he observed.  “I was merely trying to realize that I was fully conscious.”

Some time after this—­hours and minutes do not count in paradise—­he remembered the item in the paper.

“By George!” he exclaimed, “I had something to show you.  I’m afraid I’ve lost it.  Oh, no I here it is.”

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper.  The page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable.  Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur.  However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

“You were very wise,” she said sagely.

“Not so wise as I’ve become since,” he asserted with decision.  Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, “I’m afraid, dear, people won’t say as much for you, when they know.”

“I’m satisfied.”

“You may have to wait all those years—­and years—­you spoke of.”

“I will.”