"It's obvious that you have recovered," she said.
"I certainly feel much better; but what prompted your remark?"
"These stairs. You don't seem to feel them, but if you expect me to run up and down, you'll have to make them shallower and less steep. I've been up twice since I came. I must confess to a weakness in my knee."
Challoner gave her a sharp glance.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Mrs. Foster mentioned something about your not walking much; I should have remembered."
"It's the weather; I find the damp troublesome. If you don't mind, I think we'll go down."
Challoner gave her his arm, and Millicent, standing in the picture gallery, noticed their return. She suspected that it was the result of some maneuver of Mrs. Keith's intended for her advantage, and she tried to summon her resolution. The man she loved would sail the next day, believing that his poverty and the stain he had not earned must stand between them, unless she could force herself to give him a hint to the contrary. This was the only sensible course, but she timidly shrank from it.
Blake unlocked a glass case and, taking out two shelves, he carefully laid them on a table.
"There they are," he said with a rather nervous smile. "I've no doubt the things are interesting, and if our friends come up they can look at them. But it wasn't Benares brassware that brought me up here."
"Wasn't it?" Millicent asked demurely.