SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?
"I do not greatly care to be deceived."—SHAKESPEARE.
"O mad mistake,
With repentance in its wake."—JEAN INGELOW.
"FULVIA!" Nigel said in surprise.
She was creeping downstairs, step by step, evidently uncertain as to the extent of her own powers. Nigel walked to the mat at the foot of the flight, and stood there looking up, while Fulvia came to a pause four steps above, resting and looking down. Her face broke into a smile, half mischievous, half apologetic; and then the smile vanished, for it gained no response. His features were set and pale, even stern.
"Don't be angry," she said. "I shall collapse if you are. It's as much as I can do to manage the descent."
"What made you leave your room?"
"What made me? My own naughty will, I suppose. Nobody else's, certainly. Madre is out shopping with the girls, so I thought I would use my opportunity. I'm tired of seclusion."
"Have you your doctor's leave?"
"I didn't ask it. He has not been yet. Besides, if one is bent on one's own way, it's no use to court forbiddal."
"I don't think you are right."