“Not very.”
He took up a fish and turned it over in his fingers. “I think I’ll wait for the venison pasty.”
“Don’t you feel well?”
“Just a little loggy,” that’s all. “I think I slept too long.”
She looked up at him suddenly, and then with friendly solicitude, laid her fingers lightly along his brow. The gesture was natural, gentle, so exquisitely feminine, that he closed his eyes delightedly, conscious of the agreeable softness of her fingers and the coolness of their touch.
“Your brow is hot,” she said quickly.
“Is it?” he asked. “That’s queer, I feel chilly.”
“You’ve caught a bad cold, I’m afraid,” she said, removing her fingers. “It’s very—very imprudent of you.”
Not satisfied with the rapidity of her diagnosis, he thrust his hand toward her for confirmation.
“I haven’t any fever, have I?”