"Did I? I dare say. I thought it was my maid. I've got such a bad headache."
"I'm very sorry. Can I do anything?"
"No, Beatrix—no, thank you; it will go away of itself."
"I wish so much, Lady Jane, you would allow me to do anything for you. I—I sometimes fear I have offended you. You seemed to like me, I thought, when I saw you this spring in London, and I've been trying to think how I have displeased you."
"Displeased me! you displease me! Oh! Beatrix, Beatrix, dear, you don't know, you can never know. I—it is a feeling of disgust and despair. I hate myself, and I'm frightened and miserable, and I wish I dare cling to you."
She looked for a moment as if she would have liked to embrace her, but she turned away and buried her face in her pillow.
"Dear Lady Jane, you must not be so agitated. You certainly are not well," said Beatrix, close to the bedside, and really a good deal frightened. "Have you heard—I hope you have not—any ill news?"
If Lady Jane had been dead she could not have seemed to hear her less.
"I hope General Lennox is not ill?" inquired she timidly.
"Ill? No—I don't know; he's very well. I hope he's very well. I hope he is; and—and I know what I wish for myself."