"Yes, a lot."
He answered her questions one after another; she seemed to be interested in the least detail, but neither of them mentioned the dead man. Her eyes seldom left him. When he suggested that she must dismiss him as soon as she felt tired, she laughed, and replied that she was not likely to be tired for a very long while, and that he must have tea with her and nurse.
"I was writing to my two uncles in San Francisco when you came in," she said. "They will be terribly upset about me at first, poor fellows, but I have told them how kind you have been, and Uncle Mark always used to say I had plenty of sense, so that ought to ease their minds." She smiled.
"Of course you have made no definite plans yet?" he asked.
"No, I sha'n't settle anything at present. I want to consult you about several things, but some other time, when I am better. I shall have enough money, I think—that is one solid comfort. My aunt Grace—Mrs. Hopkins—has asked me to go and stay with her. Somehow I don't want to go—you'll think it queer of me, I daresay, but I would really prefer to stop in London."
He noticed that she said nothing as to joining her uncles in San Francisco.
"I fancy I shall like London," she went on, "when I know it."
"You aren't thinking, then, of going to San Francisco?"
He waited apprehensively for her answer. She hesitated. "It is so far—I don't quite know how my uncles are situated—"