"I love it!" she cooed ingenuously. "It's the only reason I don't mind being sick, to have Ray fuss and carry me about."
He put her down immediately with the familiar expression of indulgent satire in his eyes. "You'll probably get plenty of fussing from everyone; but, in the case of the boys, remember to be merciful."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"There are some young fools who might, if encouraged, lose their heads, you know."
"But there'd be no excuse, for I never flirt."
"Pardon me, you flirt like an artist."
Joyce thought it was horrid of him to say so, and wondered if she should snub him for his impertinence; only she did not quite know how. He had been so kind—perhaps he was only teasing? However she was reduced to offended silence while he made her bed with skill and expedition. He was not anxious that her husband arrive and find him so employed, and was glad to restore Mrs. Meredith to her nest of pillows without interruptions from without. Her utter lack of concern, either way, was illuminating, so that he had to revise his estimate of her once again, while his smile lost its satire.
"Sure you are comfy?" he asked before leaving her.
"Yes, thank you," she answered stiffly.
"Haughtiness does not become you, dear lady. What have I done?" he asked coolly.