"My darling, you have been grieving for my grief," he said tenderly, looking into the dark eyes, noting the tired look as of many tears, the sharper line of the cheek, the settled pallor, where a lovely carmine had been wont to come and go like warm light.
"My dearest, you have lost all your roses—and for my sake. For me those dear eyes have known sleepless nights, those lovely cheeks have grown pinched and pale."
"Do you think that I could help being sorry for you, Allan?" she murmured, with downcast eyelids.
"You had no other cause for sorrow, I hope?"
"No, no; only in every life there are saddening intervals. I was sorry for your sake—sorry that I was never to see your father again. I liked him so much, Allan. And then somehow I got into a low-spirited way, and old Dr. Podmore gave me a tonic which made my head ache. I don't know that it had any other effect."
"Suzette, it was cruel of you not to tell me that you were ill."
"Oh, I was not to say ill. Why should I worry you about such nonsense? I was only below par. That is what Dr. Podmore called it. But please don't talk about me, Allan. Talk to me of yourself and of your poor mother. She is coming to stay with you, I hope?"
"Yes, she is coming to me next week. How is Mrs. Wornock? Do you go to her as much as ever?"
"Almost as much. She seems so dependent upon me for companionship, poor soul. I am the only girl she has taken to—as people say."
"What a wise woman to choose the most charming girl in the world."