Indeed he was altogether pleased with her. She had been his own Lucy throughout the day, so gentle and sweet, and hadn't once said But, or tried to go out of rooms. Unquestioningly acquiescent she had been; and now so pretty, with the light full on her, showing up her lovely colouring.
'Who's my pretty little girl,' he said again, laying his hand on hers, while Chesterton looked down her nose.
Then he noticed she had a knitted scarf round her shoulders, and he said, 'Whatever have you got that thing on in here for?'
'I'm cold,' said Lucy.
'Cold! Nonsense. You're as warm as a toast. Feel my hand compared to yours.'
Then she did tell him she thought she had caught cold, and he said, withdrawing his hand and his face falling, 'Well, if you have it's only what you deserve when you recollect what you did yesterday.'
'I suppose it is,' agreed Lucy; and assured him her colds were all over in twenty-four hours.
Afterwards in the library when they were alone, she asked if she hadn't better sleep by herself in case he caught her cold, but Wemyss wouldn't hear of such a thing. Not only, he said, he never caught colds and didn't believe any one else who was sensible ever did, but it would take more than a cold to separate him from his wife. Besides, though of course she richly deserved a cold after yesterday—'Who's a shameless little baggage,' he said, pinching her ear, 'coming down with only a blanket on——' somehow, though he had been so angry at the time, the recollection of that pleased him—he could see no signs of her having got one. She didn't sneeze, she didn't blow her nose——
Lucy agreed, and said she didn't suppose it was anything really, and she was sure she would be all right in the morning.
'Yes—and you know we catch the early train up,' said Wemyss. 'Leave here at nine sharp, mind.'