“You are really feeling better to-day?” she asks, with that sparkling glance of her brown eyes that accompanies every word, however trivial.
“Thank you; I have eaten two eggs and a plate of bacon for breakfast, and should doubtless be looking forward now to lunch if my thoughts were not so much more pleasantly employed.”
“Are you thinking, then, that you will soon be well enough to go away?”
“I am thinking,” I reply, “that for some days I shall still be invalid enough to lie here and talk to you.”
She does not look up at this, but I can see a charming smile steal over her face and stay there while I look at her.
“Who did you say these things to last?” she inquires, presently, still looking at her work.
“What things? That I am fond of luncheon—or that I am fond of you?”
“I meant,” she replies, looking at me this time with the archest glance, “what girl did you last tell that you were fond of her?”
Now, honestly, I cannot answer this question off-hand with accuracy. I should have to think, and that is not good for an invalid.
“I cannot tell you, because I do not remember her.” I reply.