"Your cough is worse to-night," he says, turning to regard her more closely.
"No, not worse."
"Why do you walk about the house so insufficiently clothed?" asks he, angrily, glancing at her light dressing-gown with great disfavor. "One would think you were seeking ill health. Here, put this round you." He tries to place upon her shoulders the cashmere shawl she had worn when coming in from the garden in the earlier part of the evening. But she shrinks from him.
"No, no," she says, petulantly; "I am warm enough; and I do not like that thing. It is black,—the color of Death!"
Her words smite cold upon his heart. A terrible fear gains mastery over him. Death! What can it have to do with one so fair, so young, yet, alas! so frail?
"You will go somewhere for change of air?" he says, entreatingly, going up to her and laying his hand upon her shoulder. "It is of this, partly, I wish to speak to you. You will find this house lonely and uncomfortable (though doubtless pleasanter) when I am gone. Let me write to my aunt, Lady Monckton. She will be very glad to have you for a time."
"No; I shall stay here. Where are you going?"
"I hardly know; and I do not care at all."
"How long will you be away?"
"How can I answer that question either? There is nothing to bring me home."