“Yes, sweetheart,” said Carroll, still with the same curious, weary quiet.
Charlotte looked at him anxiously. “Does your head ache now, papa?” she asked.
“No, dear.”
“But you don't feel well. You are very pale.”
“I feel a little weak, that is all, dear.”
“You will feel better when you have had dinner. Mrs. Anderson came home with me, she and her maid, and she gave me some lovely thin slices of ham, and there is an oyster-stew, and some tea. Sit down, papa dear, and we will have dinner right away.”
Carroll made a superhuman effort to eat that dinner, but still the look whose strangeness rather than paleness puzzled Charlotte never left his face. She kept looking at him.
“You won't go to New York again to-morrow, will you, papa?” said she.
“No, dear. I don't think so.”
“I wish you wouldn't go again this week, papa. To-day is Thursday.”