“Nily—what is the matter, child?” he asked softly, as he felt the nervous, pressure of her fingers on his hand. [[215]]
“Oh—nothing—nothing, only a headache, I think,” she answered faltering, and she looked at him for the first time that afternoon. His eyes looked deep into hers, and she was on the point of flinging herself in wild remorse on his bosom, to cling to him and never to release her hold. But again that unseen power withheld her.
“Is it no longer to be forced back? Will it never come?” she thought hopelessly. They remained alone, and it was some little time yet before dinner should be ready.
“Nily—little woman, tell me, aren’t you well?” he asked anxiously. “Your hand is cold.”
“I am a little feverish—we have been out driving in an open carriage with Vincent.”
“I hope you are not going to be ill.”
“Oh, no; it will pass over.”
She looked at him smilingly, and all at once, in a rush of despair, she flung both her arms round his neck.
“You are so kind, so loving,” she whispered in a broken voice. “You are so kind, and—I am so fond, so very fond of you.”
Vincent did not yet feel strong enough to join them at dinner that day. At table Betsy was telling Otto of the letter from America; Vincent was about to get a situation in New York.