"I thought you called me so just now."
"That is just it. We call you so, but in reality you are Fulvia Rolfe, the heiress, not even a distant relative of ours."
"I don't see what difference the heiress-ship makes. I owe more to madre and padre and all of you, than the biggest fortune in England could ever repay. And nobody could call my few thousands a fortune. Just, enough to be comfortable on. Yes; please open the door."
"Fulvia, my dear! This is unexpected," Mr. Browning said, rising with his melancholy air and habitual sigh. "I was told that you could not come downstairs for two or three days yet. I am glad to see you looking so well."
Mr. Browning was in the way of counting everybody well except himself. Like Anice, he desired always to have a monopoly of ill-health. Fulvia's colour might, however, have deceived keener eyes than his.
"Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about yourself. Yes, there; that is a comfortable chair. I am only pretty well—only so-so—not at all up to the mark. You wished to speak to me? Yes, certainly, anything except business. I am not equal to business yet; sometimes I doubt if I ever shall be again. Don't go, Nigel."
"I will come again presently," Nigel began.
But Mr. Browning repeated, "No, don't go, pray don't go!"
And Fulvia added, "Yes, please stay. I have nothing to say which you may not hear."
Rather reluctantly Nigel remained, leaning against the mantelpiece, not far from where Fulvia sat.