Graham had no opportunity that evening of telling his tale to Madeline Staveley. The party was too large for such tale-telling or else not large enough. And then the evening in the drawing-room was over before it had seemed to begin; and while he was yet hoping that there might be some turn in his favour, Lady Staveley wished him good-night, and Madeline of course did the same. As he again pressed her hand he could not but think how little he had said to her since he had been in the house, and yet it seemed to him as though that little had made him more intimate with her than he had ever found himself before. He had made an attempt to separate himself from the company by proposing to go and call on Mrs. Baker in her own quarters; but Madeline had declared it to be too late for such an expedition, explaining that when Mrs. Baker had no patient on hand she was accustomed to go early to her bed. In the present instance, however, she had been wrong, for when Felix reached the door of his own room, Mrs. Baker was coming out of it.
"I was just looking if everything was right," said she. "It seems natural to me to come and look after you, you know."
"And it is quite as natural to me to be looked after."
"Is it though? But the worst of you gentlemen when you get well is that one has done with you. You go away, and then there's no more about it. I always begrudge to see you get well for that reason."
"When you have a man in your power you like to keep him there."
"That's always the way with the women you know. I hope we shall see one of them tying you by the leg altogether before long."
"I don't know anything about that," said Felix, sheepishly.
"Don't you? Well, if you don't I suppose nobody don't. But nevertheless I did hear a little bird say—eh! Mr. Graham."
"Those little birds are the biggest liars in the world."
"Are they now? Well perhaps they are. And how do you think our Miss Madeline is looking? She wasn't just well for one short time after you went away."