"Can't I fetch you a shawl, Mrs. Chesney?" she asked, looking up with her alert black eyes.
"Thanks; but wouldn't you like a fire lit, Cecil?" Sophy asked. "You're so fond of a fire in your bedroom. I can't think why Gaynor hasn't seen to it."
"I don't care for a fire," said Chesney curtly. "Being in bed is stuffy work as it is."
He lay nearly always in bed now.
"But, Cecil, you're so used to it. I'm afraid being in a damp room like this may give you cold. It isn't as if you were accustomed to doing without fire. Please let Nurse——"
"Don't nag!" he said, quite roughly this time. "I can look after my own wants. I'm not quite incompetent yet."
Sophy glanced at the nurse, still anxious. She thought Anne Harding's eyes had a rather queer expression—startled.
"Don't you agree with me, Nurse?" she asked.
Anne lowered her eyes and busied herself again with the little chest.
"I don't think it matters," she said, "if Mr. Chesney really prefers it this way."