“Certainly! Certainly, Miss Herford! I see nothing to prevent it.”
“But he looked and acted so strangely,” said Edith tremblingly.
“No doubt! No doubt! So would you or I, placed in the same circumstances. There, there! Run along to bed, I’ll stay here the rest of the night, and see that he is all right,” gently pushing her through the door as he ceased speaking.
The next morning Arthur awoke feeling comfortably well, but very weak. The physician was sitting beside the bed when he opened his eyes; Arthur regarded him curiously, a puzzled look overspreading his countenance as his gaze wandered about the room. He murmured something strange; receiving no reply, he said slowly, like a child just beginning to talk: “Where am I?”
“In your own bed, of course; where should you be?”
He lay quiet, looking around curiously, as though everything were new to him. “Why am I here?” still with the same hesitation, as though not certain as to the meaning of his words.
“Where in the mischief would you wish, or expect to be, if not in your own home?” answered the doctor a trifle impatiently.
He looked troubled but asked no more questions; presently he lifted his long, white hand, adorned with a handsome ring, and examined it as though he had never before seen it; he seemed strangely unable to express his feelings.
“Jove!” said the doctor later, “I wonder if the fellow has lost his wits! It is a pity if so, for he was one of the shrewdest of men, and a sharp financier.”
If Edith hovered about him, or caressed him with gentle touch, or called him fond names, he looked at her in surprise, and gave not the slightest return.