“It is his room.”
“He would say that, while you occupy it, it is yours, and not his.”
“He awaits my invitation, then.”
“I dare say he would come if you were to invite him, but certainly not without.”
“I wish to see him who has been so kind to me, and so loves music; but not to-day—I feel unable.”
The next day she asked for a glass, and was distressed at her appearance. She begged for a cap.
“What kind of a cap?” asked Fanny.
“One like that,” said she, pointing to a portrait on the wall. It was of a lady in a plain brown silk dress and a little white shawl, and a neat cap with a narrow lace border all round her face.
This particular cap was out of date full sixty years; but the house had a storeroom of relics, and Fanny, with Vizard's help, soon rummaged out a cap of the sort, with a narrow frill all round.
Her hair was smoothed, a white silk band passed over the now closed wound, and the cap fitted on her. She looked pale, but angelic.