The great thing now was to efface the disastrous impression he must have made by this weakness. He must make Mimi realize that he was not the sort of person who was ever ill, or ever laid down, or desired cups of tea. He came downstairs early, and after a few repentant words to Mrs. Boles—who had got down still earlier—he decided to take a walk.
Mimi and Mrs. Dexter would, of course, get up late, as was the habit of city people, and when he met them, he would remark casually that he had had a five-mile walk before breakfast. He went into the library, where he had left his pipe, and he had just taken it in his hand when Mimi appeared in the doorway.
“Oh! I see you’re better this morning!” she remarked, polite and nothing more.
“Yes,” Hughes replied. “It was nothing. A cold—something of the sort. But, Miss Dexter! Look here! I’m—I’m afraid I wasn’t—I didn’t—You may have thought I didn’t appreciate your great kindness—”
Miss Dexter appeared very much mollified by this tone.
“Well, you weren’t yourself,” she said, softly.
Hughes was silent for a moment. It was generous of her to think that, but it wouldn’t do.
“I’m afraid I was myself,” he admitted at last. “I mean—I am like that sometimes. I don’t want you to think that I’m—”
“I don’t,” she said softly.
He was greatly disconcerted by this. He glanced at her; she was wearing a rose-colored dress, and it made him a little dizzy. She was so extraordinarily lovely. He did not think it wise to look at her any more or to speak to her just then, so he began to fill his pipe instead.