"Not he, child; he will remain in bed all day, so you need not start and listen every second."
But her back was no sooner turned than I slipped upstairs. I had not been mistaken; Cornelius was up, and in his studio, but not at work; he stood before his easel, gazing on Medora, and looking so pale and ill that I felt quite dismayed.
"What do you want?" he asked, coldly but not unkindly.
"Nothing, Cornelius; am I in the way?"
"You may stay."
I sat down by the table; he began to pace the narrow room up and down; once he stopped short to say—
"There is no fire; the room must be cold; you had better go down."
"I am not cold; pray let me stay."
He did not insist; resumed his promenade, then threw himself down on the couch, with an impatient sigh and a moody face. I rose, stepped across the room, and sat down by him. Encouraged by his silence, I passed my arm around his neck. I had meant to say something, to tell him I was grieved for his pain or trouble, whichever it might be, but when it came to the point, all I could do was to kiss his cheek. Cornelius made a motion to put me away impatiently; but when his eyes, looking into mine, saw them filled with tears, he checked the movement.
"Poor little thing!" he said, with a sad smile; "you put by your childish anger the moment you think me in pain."