"If—if you could say you were getting a little better."
He smiled. "It looks like it, doesn't it?" he said, languidly.
Barbara's eyes met his for a moment, and then she hung her head.
No, it did not look like it. Two candles were burning on the chimney-piece, but the curtains had not been drawn. Between the two dim lights, yellow and grey, he sat, leaning a little sideways, with a face like the face of the dead, except for the great sombre eyes which looked out of it, and the smile which showed a glimpse of his teeth. His hand hung over the arm of his chair, the hot nerveless hand which Barbara had taken in her own a moment before.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped I might have had some better news of you before I went away. Did you know I was going away—going to be married?"
She looked up, putting the question in a timid voice, and he answered "Yes," with a slight movement of his head and eyelids. "I wish you all happiness."
"Thank you," said Barbara gratefully.
"And where are you going?"
"To Paris for a time, and then we shall see. He"—this with a little hesitation—"he is very busy."
"Busy—what, more poems?" said the man who had done with being busy.