"You never were so afflicted formerly."
"No; I don't remember," she replied quickly. "But you know I had a good deal of care and responsibility during your absence; it may be that which has shaken me a little."
"Do you believe it?" he asked, in a constrained voice.
She shot one glance of indignant pride at him; for an instant she looked inclined to leave the room, as had frequently been her habit during the first months of their marriage, when he irritated her beyond endurance.
But if Elizabeth had the inclination she controlled it. After a moment's silence she laid down her work and approached the sofa where he was lying.
"Don't be severe with me, Grantley," she said, with a degree of humility unknown to the past; "my head aches drearily—I don't think I am well."
His feelings changed as he looked at her; she was not well; he could see the traces of pain in the languid eyes and the contracted forehead, but whether the suffering was mental or physical even a physiognomist could not have told.
He reached out his hand and drew her towards him; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder with a little sigh of weariness.
"I can rest here," she whispered; "it is my place, isn't it, Grantley?"
There was tender, almost childish pleading in her voice; he lifted her face, looked into her eyes and saw tears there.