“Nothing of the sort. You were sick. Who lays up anything against a sick man?”
“Excuse it in me like this, Aurora, if you can: that having such regard for you, I had pride before you and could not endure that you should see me when I felt myself to be a disgusting object. So, mortified to the point of torture, I lost my temper,–I’ve got that bad habit, you know,–and insanely railed to keep you off.”
“And didn’t succeed. Come, come; what nonsense all this is! Put it out of your mind and think of nothing but getting well. Now you–”
“It is not nearly so important that I should get well,” he testily persisted, “as that I should ask your forgiveness. It has been weighing upon me and burning like bedclothes of hot iron, the horror of having so meanly and ungratefully offended you.”
“Why should you feel so bad about it as long as I don’t? Put it all out of your mind, just as I do out of mine. There, it’s all right. Now keep still except to answer my questions. You’ve had the doctor?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What’s he giving you?”
“You can see–there on the stand–those bottles.”
“And hot things on your chest?”
“Yes; semedilino. I don’t know what you call it in English.”