Mr. Wilmot leant back in the big wooden easy-chair, as silent as herself. Mrs. Stuart, unlike Annie, knew illness when she saw it, and she was much struck with his air of exhaustion. It seemed so unlike Mr. Wilmot. Generally when he came in he was bright and chatty, asking her about all her interests and belongings.
"I'm afraid you've been very bad sir, lately," she said. "There's a good many of us have seen it. You've lost a deal of flesh."
Hardly any answer came to this. The water was boiling at last—evidenced by the straight rush of steam from the spout and by the dancing lid. A few minutes more, and Mr. Wilmot was gratefully sipping a cup of excellent tea.
"You certainly are an adept in the art of tea making," he said.
"And I'm sure I'm proud to make it for you; sir," asserted Mrs. Stuart, with a geniality of manner which would have astonished many of those acquaintances who knew her only as a human icicle. An icicle needs to be thawed before it can possibly become warm; and not many people in Littleburgh possessed such thawing powers as Mr. Wilmot.
"Sit down, Mrs. Stuart. Pray don't stand," he said kindly.
Mrs. Stuart complied.
"And you'll eat something—won't you now?" she entreated. "My bread's every bit home-made, and I'll answer for it as it's wholesome. You do look better for the tea, sir, already. I didn't like to see you as you was when you come in."
"Mrs. Stuart, if you see my daughter, don't mention this to her," said Mr. Wilmot. "She is anxious enough already."
"No, sir. She'd need be anxious, I'm sure," said Mrs. Stuart, unaware that it is often by no means the height of wisdom to tell an invalid how ill he is looking. "For I don't know as I ever did see anybody change for the worse, sir, in a few months, as you've done—and you as used to be so strong! Why, you've grown as thin! And not a bit of strength in you."