"I don't. I think it's just what he wants. Oh, Kitty, could you—would you, if I wanted it, too?"
"You needn't ask. But what earthly good can it do?"
"If he got strong here it would be so nice to think we sent him away well. And if he's going to be ill I could look after him—"
Her use of "we" and "I" did not pass unnoticed by the observant Kitty.
"And then?"
Lucia's face, which had been overcast with care, was now radiant. "Then I should have done something for him besides making him miserable. Will you ask him, Kitty?"
"You're a fool, Lucy, and I'm another. But I'll ask him. To-morrow, though; not to-day."
She waited to see what to-morrow would bring forth, for she was certain it would bring forth something.
It brought forth glorious weather after the east wind, a warm languid day, half spring, half summer. Lucia and Kitty seemed bent on putting all idea of business out of their guest's head. In the morning they drove about the country. In the afternoon they all sat out in the south square under the windows of the morning-room, while Lucia talked to him about his tragedies. Kitty still held her invitation in reserve.
At last she left them to themselves. It was Lucia who first returned to the subject of dispute. She had some sewing in her lap which gave her the advantage of being able to talk in a calm, detached manner and without looking up. He sat near her, watching with delight the quiet movements of her hands.