She rested her two elbows upon her knees, and her delicate chin upon her palms, gazing her fill upon the real Englishman.
"I'm a poor specimen of my race just now," said Denzil, in some confusion. "When I have been here a day or two I shall be very different, I hope."
"Father ought to have gone and fetched you before," she remarked. "I told him so. I said that dear old Vronsky has no more idea of nursing than a kangaroo. And we would have taken such care of you!"
"I could not have troubled you," he replied. "This is unheard-of kindness. I feel sorry now that I sent for my aunt. You know she is at St. Petersburg, with my—my——" he hesitated painfully, and at last said, "My ward, Miss Leigh."
"And you sent for them—to come to Savlinsky?" cried Nadia, in surprise.
"I did. I was so frightfully ill the night before last, I thought I was dying. And you see, there is no doctor to be had."
"Oh!" said Nadia, "I wish we had known!"
His eyes roamed round the garden. "I had no idea there could be a place like this in this country," he said. "Nor—nor anyone so—anyone like you."
"Like me?" cried Nadia, with animation, glowing upon him. "How do you mean—anyone so what?"
"Anyone so perfectly beautiful." It was out before he knew it. He, Denzil, had said it—he, who never in his life previously had paid a compliment to a woman. In England he would no more have said such a thing than have taken his coat off and sat in his shirtsleeves in her presence. But here all was different. And she was not angry, but on the contrary, much pleased. She smiled slowly, mysteriously, with lowered lashes, and Denzil, leaning forward, took up her childishly small, delicately tended hand, and kissed it. "Forgive me," he said. "My heart is full. Your great kindness!"