"I came to inquire for your fever," he replied a trifle coldly. "You have it again, I see--and feel. You should be in bed as it is."
He wheeled the armchair to the fire, brought a cushion from the sofa, and waited, holding it in his hand to settle it comfortably for her as she sate down.
She gave an odd little sort of choke.
"What a coddle you are, Paul! There is nothing really the matter with me. I grow old, that is all; I grow old." It was not a good beginning for an interview in which she would need all her self-control, all her common sense; and had the letter been within reach at that moment it would have received scant justice at her hands, for nothing in the wide world seemed worth consideration save this man with his kind ways and soft voice. He, at any rate, must not suffer.
[CHAPTER XXV.]
The room was growing dusk. That pleasant duskiness which obliterates corners and seems to concentrate comfort on the flame-lit circle by the fire.
"What a good nurse you are, Paul," she said, with an effort after her usual airiness. "The woman you marry will be lucky."
"I'm glad someone thinks so," he remarked briefly, "for there does not seem to be much competition----"
"Paul!" she interrupted, with a sudden flutter at her heart. "Do you mean----"
"Yes! you were right, as usual, if that is any comfort to you. I have got my dismissal. Does that satisfy you?"