CHAPTER XXII.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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This thought is as a death."—Shakespeare.
The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode of arguing, this is one day not lost.
About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual friends there, and imparts it freely.
"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day."
"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear."