"I'm perfectly well," she answered him, her eyes maintaining their fixed stare. The tone in which she said these words was quite new--it was not submissive, it was not defensive, it was indifferent.
She must be ill. He came close to the bed.
"Do you realise the time?" he asked. "Twenty minutes past seven. I'm sure you don't want to keep me waiting."
She didn't answer him. Certainly she must be ill. There was something strange about her eyes.
"You must be ill," he repeated. "You look ill. Why didn't you say so? Have you got a headache?"
"I'm not ill. I haven't got a headache, and I'm not coming to Early Service."
"You're not ill, and you're not coming..." he stammered in his amazement. "You've forgotten. There isn't late Celebration."
She gave him no answer, but turned on her side, closing her eyes.
He came right up to the bed, frowning down upon her.
"Amy--what does this mean? You're not ill, and yet you're not coming to Celebration? Why? I insist upon an answer."