"To see me?" says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very red. Both the tone and the blush are "confirmation strong" of the doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney.
"To be sure, my dear; and why not?" says the kindly little doctor, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles. They are both part of his medicine. So,—under the circumstances,—through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen of England or a lowly milkmaid alike,—with perhaps an additional pat to the milkmaid, should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in nature's charms, is a special favorite of his.
"But—" says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts. The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze—he is watching her with a half sneer upon his face—disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion.
"Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we must be cautious, very cautious, and quiet, extremely quiet, eh? That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is impetuous,—very impetuous."
"You think, then," stammers Lilian, making one last faint effort at escape from the dreaded ordeal,—"you think——"
"I don't think," smiling good-naturedly, "I know you must not stay with him longer than five minutes."
"Good doctor, make it three," is on the point of Lilian's tongue, but, ashamed to refuse this small request of poor wounded Archibald, she follows Dr. Bland into his room.
On the bed, lying pale and exhausted, is Archibald, his lips white, his eyes supernaturally large and dark. They grow even larger and much brighter as they rest on Lilian, who slowly, but—now that she again sees him so weak and prostrate—full of pity, approaches his side.
"You have come, Lilian," he says, faintly: "it is very good of you,—more than I deserve. I vexed you terribly this morning, did I not? But you will forgive me now I have come to grief," with a wan smile.