“You’re as bad as Jake; he wouldn’t answer my questions,” Dick grumbled. “Then, you see, I want to talk.”
Clare laughed, as if she found it a relief to do so. “That doesn’t matter if it will do you harm.”
“I’ll be very quiet,” Dick pleaded. “I’ll only speak a word or two now and then. But don’t go away!”
Clare sat down, and after a few minutes Dick resumed: “You passed my door to-day, and it’s curious that I knew your step, though, if you can understand, without actually recognizing it. It was as if I was dreaming something that was real. The worst of being ill is that your brain gets working independently, bringing things up on its own account, without your telling it. Anyhow, I remembered the iron steps with the glow of the window through the curtain, and how you slipped—you wore little white shoes, and the moonlight shone through the branches on your dress.”
He broke off and frowned, for a vague, unpleasant memory obtruded itself. Something that had had disastrous consequences had happened in the quiet garden, but he could not remember what it was.
“Why did Lucille call you ma mignonne?” he asked. “Doesn’t it mean a petted child?”
“Not always. She was my nurse when I was young.”
“Then you have lived here before?”
“Not here, but in a country where there are people like Lucille, though it’s long ago. But you mustn’t speak another word. Go to sleep at once!”
“Then stay where I can see you and I’ll try,” Dick answered; and although he did not mean to do so, presently closed his eyes.