Her acquaintances spoke a good deal about Eline, and Betsy frequently remarked with a serious face that she feared it was far from right with her; Eline was so strange just now, and Reyer was not satisfied either, and her acquaintances pitied her. Poor Eline! [[302]]formerly she was so pretty, so elegant, so cheerful—and now she was like a shadow of her former self. Yes, indeed, she was very ill. That one could easily see.
It was raining—a cold, searching March rain—and Betsy was at home, sitting in the little violet boudoir which opened on the conservatory. It was somewhat dark, but Betsy had moved her fauteuil in the light, and was reading Les Pêcheurs d’Islande by Pierre Loti. But the book bored her; how could fishermen be so very sentimental? Now and then her glance fell along the palms of the conservatory and on the barren garden, where the bare branches were dripping with wet. Ben sat on the floor by her fauteuil. All at once he gave a sigh.
“What is it, Ben? Is anything the matter?” asked Betsy.
“No, ma,” he answered, looking up in surprise with his laboured little voice.
“Why do you sigh then, child?”
“I don’t know, ma.”
She looked at him searchingly for a moment, then she laid down her book.
“Just come here, Ben.”
“Where, ma dear?”
“Here, on my lap.”