"You are very good to me, Dimbie, dear;" and tears trembled in my eyes.
"Whatever's the matter?" he said in alarm.
"I'm only tired. I have been so excited about your coming."
"Poor darling!" he murmured softly. "It's this hot weather that is making you so weary. I'm going to read you to sleep, and you must sleep till supper. What shall it be?" He picked up one or two of the books from the table. "Omar?"
"No, I'm tired of Omar."
"The Garden of Allah?"
"No, beautiful but sad."
"What, then?"
I lay and thought. Dimbie had a musical voice; he read well. I wanted something to suit his voice.
"Pilgrim's Progress," I said. "It's on the drawing-room table."