Dalrymple was taken by surprise. The tone in which she had spoken was cold and distant rather than expressive of any concern for his welfare, but he did not think of that. He only realized that his manner must seem to her very unusual, since she asked such a question. An Italian would have observed that his own face was pale, and would have told her that he was dying of love.
"No, I am not ill," answered the Scotchman, simply, and in his most natural tone of voice.
"Then what is the matter with you since yesterday?" asked Maria Addolorata, less coldly, and as though she were secretly amused.
"There is nothing the matter—at least, nothing that I could explain to you."
She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as formerly, he took his seat opposite to her.
"There is something," she insisted, speaking thoughtfully. "You cannot deceive a woman, Signor Doctor."
Dalrymple smiled and looked at her veiled head.
"You said the other day that I was not a man, but a doctor," he answered. "I suppose I might answer that you are not a woman, but a nun."
"And is not a nun a woman?" asked Maria Addolorata, and he knew that she was smiling, too.
"You would not forgive me if I answered you," he said.