"Oh," she cried, "it has done you harm. Your face is quite changed. Why didn't I see it before? What have you been doing?"
"Nothing," he answered.
He did not stir, or want to stir, but sat almost breathlessly still, watching her, the sudden soft anxiousness in her eyes setting every pulse in his body throbbing.
"Oh," she said, "you are ill—you are ill! How could you be so careless? Why did not papa"—
She faltered—her voice fell and broke. She even drew back a little, though her eyes still rested upon his.
"You were angry with me when you thought I did not take care of myself," she said; "and you have been as bad as I was, and worse. You had not so many temptations. And she turned away, and he found himself looking only at her cheek again, and the soft side-curve of her mouth.
"There is less reason why I should take care of myself," he said.
"You mean"—she asked, without moving—"that there are fewer people who would miss you?"
"I do not know of any one who would miss me."