"You're well? quite well? and happy? no doubt happy?" said Lennox, setting down his candle on the table near the bed, "and glad to see me?"
"Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what's the matter? You're ill—are you ill?"
"Ho! no, very well, quite well—very well indeed."
There was that in his look and manner that told her she was ruined. She froze with a horror she had never dreamed of before.
"There's something, Arthur—there is—you won't tell me."
"That's strange, and you tell me everything."
"What do you mean, sir? Oh, Arthur, what do you mean?"
"Mean! Nothing!"
"I was afraid you were angry, and I've done nothing to vex you—nothing. You looked so angry—it's so unreasonable and odd of you. But I am glad to see you, though you don't seem glad to see me. You've been a long time away, Arthur, in London, very long. I hope all your business is settled, I hope. And I'm very glad to hear you're not ill—indeed I am. Why are you vexed?"
"Vexed! ho! I'm vexed, am I? that's odd."