"Let me look at you."
She held him at arm's length and turned him to the light. It showed his face white, worn as it used to be, all the little lines of worry back again, and two new ones that drew down the corners of his mouth.
"You've been ill," she said. "You are ill."
"No. I'm all right. What's the matter with you?"
"With me? Nothing. Do I look as if anything was wrong?"
"You look as if you'd been frightened."
He paused, considering it.
"This place isn't good for you. You oughtn't to be here like this, all by yourself."
"Oh! Rodney, it's the dearest place. I love every inch of it. Besides, I'm not altogether by myself."
He did not seem to hear her; and what he said next arose evidently out of his own thoughts.