"What kind of day is it, Westenra?" she said the moment I put in an appearance. She was not up yet, she was lying in bed supported by pillows. Her dear, fragile beautiful face looked something like the most delicate old porcelain. She was sipping a cup of strong soup, which Jane Mullins had just sent up to her.
"O Mummy!" I said, kissing her frantically, "are you ill? What is the matter?"
"No, my darling, I am quite as well as usual," she answered, "a little weak, but that is nothing. I am tired sometimes, Westenra."
"Tired, but you don't do a great deal," I said.
"That's just it, my love, I do too little. If I had more to do I should be better."
"More visiting, I suppose, and that sort of thing?" I said.
"Yes," she answered very gently, "more visiting, more variety, more exchange of ideas—if it were not for Mr. Randolph."
"You like him?" I said.
"Don't you, my darling?"
"I don't know, mother, I am not sure about him. Who is he?"