She remembers. There was the long sea-voyage and the death of Cecil's mother.
"My darling," he says, distressed at her grave face and not dreaming of what is in her thoughts, "when you are well once again, and the right time comes, you shall dance to your heart's content. I will take you to a ball,—to dozens of them,—for you have had no real young-girl life. And now, as soon as you can endure the fatigue, we will go to the city to operas and theatres. I was thinking, that first night you were hurt, what a little hermit you had been, and that we would give the proprieties the go-by for once."
He is leaning over her reclining chair, looking down into her velvety eyes and watching the restless sweep of the long bronze lashes. The whole face is electrified with delicious rapture, and she stretches up her arms to clasp him about the neck.
"Oh, you thought of me, then!" she cries, with a tremulous joy. "You were planning pleasures for me, and I just laid and slept," remorsefully.
"But if you had not slept I should have been ill at ease, and could have planned no pleasures. It was your bounden duty."
He kisses her fondly. It is quite a new delight. Is he really falling in love with her? as the phrase goes. It will be delightful to have duty and inclination join.
"I shall be so careful," she says, when they come back to a reasonable composure. "Dr. Hendricks said if I was very careful and not impatient to get about, my ankle would be just as strong as ever. I want it to be—perfect, so I can dance all night; people do sometimes. Oh, if I had hurt myself so that I never could get well!" and her face is pale with terror.
"Don't think of it, my darling."
Cecil comes up, full of importance and in a Holland apron that covers her from chin almost to ankles. "I have made a cake," she announces, "and we have just put it in the oven. It is for lunch. You will surely stay, papa!"
"Surely, surely! Who dressed you up, Cecil?" and he smiles.