“I'm sure she is,” said Peter, feeling ashamed of having made so much of his own little troubles.
“She must get out of London if she's to improve at all. In a week or two I hope she'll be able to move.”
“How's every one else?”
“Oh, well enough.” Mrs. Brockett straightened her dress with her beautiful hands in the old familiar way—“But you're not looking very hearty yourself, Mr. Peter.”
“Oh! I'm all right,” he answered smiling; but she shook her head after him as she watched him go up the stairs.
And then he was surprised. He came into Norah Monogue's room and found her sitting up by her window, looking better than he had ever seen her. Her face was full of colour and her eyes bright and smiling. Only on her hands the blue veins stood out, and their touch, when she shook hands with him, was hot and burning.
But he was reassured; Mrs. Brockett had exaggerated and made the worst of it all.
“You're looking splendid—I'm so glad. I was afraid from your letter-”
“Oh! I really am getting on,” she broke in gaily, “and it's the nicest boy in the world that you are to come in and see me so quickly. Only on a day like this London does just lie heavily upon one doesn't it? and one just longs for the country—”
A little breath of a sigh escaped from her and she looked through her window at the dim chimneys, the clouds hanging like consolidated smoke, the fine, thin dust that filtered the air.