“Much better than he was this morning. He has been asleep most of the day and seems less exhausted. I think the attack is passing over.”
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
“Has it been very bad this time?”
“About as bad as it can well be, I should think.”
“I thought so. When he won't let me come into the room, that always means it's bad.”
“Does he often have attacks like this?”
“That depends—— It's so irregular. Last summer, in Switzerland, he was quite well; but the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was awful. He wouldn't let me come near him for days together. He hates to have me about when he's ill.”
She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her eyes again, went on:
“He always used to send me off to a ball, or concert, or something, on one pretext or another, when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock himself into his room. I used to slip back and sit outside the door—he would have been furious if he'd known. He'd let the dog come in if it whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I think.”
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her manner.