“It was very thoughtful of you to write me that letter—when you were in such pain.”
“I owed it to you. I had promised to receive you. It would have been unfair, if I had not written.”
“I—I was quite alarmed about you. I was afraid your headache might—” He faltered.
“There was no occasion for alarm. I am used to such headaches. I expect one every now and then.”
“But—do you know?—at first I did not believe in it—not until your letter confirmed what Mrs. Hart and the servant had said.”
“Why?”
“I thought perhaps—perhaps you did not care to see me, and had pleaded a headache for politeness’ sake.”
“You did me an injustice.”—A pause.—“I did care to see you.”
A longer pause. Arthur’s heart was beating madly. Well it might. She had pronounced the last sentence with an emphasis calculated to move a man less deeply in love than he.
“Do you mean what you have just said?” he asked presently. His voice quivered.