"Aunt Magda!" he exclaimed.
She gave him her hand, and he bent over it—remained so long with his head bowed that it seemed a conscious prolongation of the time before their eyes must meet.
"I hardly expected you this afternoon," she said gently, "certainly not in such grande tenue. Are you on special duty?"
He did not answer at once. He stood looking at her with a curiously absent expression.
"I came to ask after Hildegarde," he said. "Is she better?"
"Yes, much better—still very weak, of course. A fever like that is not quickly forgotten."
She had slipped her arm through his and led him to the sofa before the fire.
"The violets you sent are most beautiful," she went on. "They gave Hildegarde so much pleasure. She asked me to thank you for them."
He sat down beside her and for a moment was silent, gazing into the fire.
"Aunt Magda," he then began abruptly, "you have never told me what it was that caused Hildegarde's illness—nor even what was the matter with her. I—I want to know."