“You may get up to-morrow, and go downstairs,” I said. “It is dull for you alone up here.”
“I like being here,” she said.
Was she, like so many women, “contrary?” Always opposing the suggestions of others, never willing to fall in with family arrangements.
“Don’t you want to see the goldfish?” I hazarded, speaking as if to a child. “He must be lonely now Mrs. Robinson is laid up. And who will give him his crumbs?”
“No, I don’t want to see him,” she said passionately. “I never look at him if I can help it. Oh Dr. Giles, everyone seems to shut their eyes who comes into this house—everyone—but don’t you see how dreadful it is to be a prisoner?”
She looked at me with timid despairing eyes, which yet had a flicker of hope in them. I patted her hand gently, and found she still had a little fever.
“But he gets plenty of crumbs,” I said soothingly, “and it is a nice aquarium with fresh water running through all the time. I think he is a very lucky goldfish.”
She looked fixedly at me, and the faint colour in her cheeks faded, the imploring look vanished from her eyes.
She leaned back among her lace pillows.