“I don’t think Justin seems well,” she repeated, Lois, looking up at her with calmly expressionless eyes from her pillow, having taken no notice of the remark. “He has changed, I think, even in the ten days since I came.”
“He has something on his mind,” assented Lois, with a note of languor in her voice, “I suppose it’s the business—I made up my mind to ask him about it to-night; he has been out every evening lately, and I hardly see him at all before he goes off in the morning, now that I don’t get down to breakfast.”
“Oh, he gave me a message for you this morning,” cried Dosia, with compunction at having so far forgotten it. “He said that Mr. Larue had come in to inquire about you yesterday; he is going to send you a basket of strawberries and roses from his place at Collingswood to-morrow.”
“Eugene Larue!” Lois’ lips relaxed into a pleased curve, a slight color touched her cheek. “That was very nice of him; he knew I’d like to look forward to getting them. Strawberries and roses!”
“I met Mr. Girard in the street to-day, he asked after you,” continued Dosia, with the feeling that if she spoke of him she might get that tiresome, insistent image of him from before her eyes.
“Bailey Girard? Yes; he has a room at the Snows’. Billy’s out West.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Dosia.
It was one of the strange and melancholy ironies of life that the man of all others whom she had desired to meet should be thrown daily in her pathway now, after that desire was gone!
“You’d better not talk any more now, Lois; you look tired, it’s time for you to take a little rest. I’ll see to the children, I hope baby will stay asleep. Let me put this coverlet over you. Shall I pull down the shades?”
“No, I’d rather have the light. Please hand me that book over there on the stand,” said Lois, holding out her hand for the big, old-fashioned brown volume that Dosia brought to her.