Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to hope, and quite composed, though much surprised with her first acquaintance with illness, and not even comprehending that she could not get up, till the pain of the attempt corroborated Violet’s assurance.
‘How base it is,’ said she, ‘not to be able to do a few hours’ work without having to take to one’s bed. I flattered myself I was not so despicably weak, for a woman.’
‘You might be satisfied,’ said Violet, her heart too full to say more.
‘Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had happened.’
‘Where should any of us be but for you?’ said Violet, bending over her.
‘There’s not an inch of me fit for kissing!’ exclaimed Theodora, turning away.
‘Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks of it.’
‘Papa! Where is he? I don’t remember him since we went down to Armstrong’s. Yes, I do though!’ she paused, ‘but I can’t think of it. Crying would be worse. What a queer thing fainting is! I used to speculate what it was like.’
‘How do you like it?’ said Violet, perceiving her mood.
‘Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one’s memory hazy. What has become of mamma? I suppose she is afraid of the sight of my visage.’