"So good of you"—with a weary smile—"so kind to take all this trouble! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect martyr to these attacks, and I find when seized with one that rest and entire freedom from conversation are my only cures. I have such a wretched head," putting her hand pathetically to her forehead. "At such times as these I am utterly useless, and the worst companion possible."
"A headache must be a miserable thing," say I, thinking all the while how uncommonly well she bears hers.
"Yes," resignedly. "You never have one, I suppose."
"Oh, never; I hardly know what it means—the sensation you speak of. I am so desperately healthy, you see. I dare say it comes from living in the country all my life and never keeping late hours. Perhaps"—smiling—"when I get to London I shall learn all too soon."
"I hope not, for your own sake."
"I fear you will be terribly ennuyee up here all by yourself. If you would come down to the library it would be so much more cheerful for you. There is a good lounge there; and you need not talk unless you wish it."
"Thank you very much, but indeed I am better where I am. I hate inflicting myself upon my friends when I am so hopelessly out of spirits. Perhaps by and by—towards evening—I shall lose this feeling of heaviness. I generally do, indeed, if I remain perfectly quiet during the day. Until then, dear Mrs. Carrington, I must ask you to excuse me. But"—going back to her own seat, withdrawing the coquettish little note from its concealment, and proceeding to fold it into a cocked-hat with elaborate openness—"will you not sit down for a few minutes?"
I accept the hint.
"No, indeed. I will leave you to get a little sleep, so that we may be the more sure of seeing you among us this evening."
Much pleased with this speech, which sounds to my own ears particularly graceful, I move towards the door and vanish.