I've a sentimental fancy to be able
to have 'Mrs. Nat V. West' written on my tombstone in the event of my
demise to-morrow. I want you to make arrangements for the same."
"Cynthia!"
The word was almost a cry, but she checked it, her fingers on his lips.
"You great big silly!" she murmured, laughing weakly. "Where's your
sense of humour? Can't you see I'm not going to die? But I'm going to be
Mrs. Nat V. West all the same. Now, is that quite understood, I wonder?
Because I don't want to cry any more--I'm tired."
"You wish to marry me in the morning--before the operation?" West said,
speaking almost under his breath.
His face was close to hers. She looked him suddenly straight in the
eyes.
"Yes, just that," she told him softly. "I want--dear--I want to go to
sleep, holding my husband's hand."
XI
"It's a clear case of desertion," declared Cynthia imperturbably, two
months later. "But never mind that now, Jack. How do you like my sling?
Isn't it just the cutest thing in creation?"
"You look splendid," Babbacombe said with warmth, but he surveyed her
with slightly raised brows notwithstanding.
She nodded brightly in response.
"No, I'm not worrying any, I assure you. You don't believe me, I see. So
here's something for you to read that will set your mind at rest."
Babbacombe read, with a slowly clearing face. The note he held was in
his agent's handwriting.
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