"That does make it better," said he, half to himself, with the first approach to good-humor he had shown since his misfortune.
Cornelia still remained glowing in the door-way, turning the latch backward and forward, not knowing what more to say, and yet unwilling to say nothing more. She did not at all comprehend Bressant's attitude, and therefore admired him all the more. What she could not understand in him was, of course, beyond her scope.
"You may think nothing of it, but I know I—I know we do—I can't say what I want to, and I'm not going to try any more; but I'm sure you know—or, at least, you'll find out some time—in some other way, you know."
Bressant could not hear all this, nor would he have known what it meant, if he had; but he could see that Cornelia was kindly disposed toward him, and was conscious of great pleasure in looking at her, and thought, if she were to touch him, he would get well. He said nothing, however, and presently his bodily pain caused him to sigh and close his eyes wearily. Cornelia immediately kissed her soft fingers to him twice, and then vanished from the room, looking more like a blush than a tea rose. Before long she returned with the sick man's breakfast on a tray.
"Do you like to be nursed?" asked she, as she put the tray on a table, and moved it up to the bedside.
"No!" said Bressant, emphatically, and with an intonation of great surprise.
"Oh! why not?" faltered Cornelia, quite taken aback.
"I hate disabled people; they're monstrosities, and had better not be at all. I wouldn't nurse them."
"You think there's no pleasure in doing things for people who cannot help themselves?" demanded Cornelia, indignantly.
"There can be no pleasure in nursing," reiterated he. "It might be very pleasant to be nursed—by any one who is beautiful—if one did not need the nursing!"