"It seems to me that you ought to welcome this interval as a rest. You know best about that, of course. But, whether or not, there is no help for it. Do you think my mother would suffer you to go to the fever?"
"I don't know," I answered, with a catching sob.
"Yes, I think you do know. I should not."
"You are too kind to me, Mr. Chandos."
"Am I? Will you repay it by giving me some tea? I am going up to my mother, and shall expect it ready when I come down. Put out, and cool, mind, ready to drink. I am as thirsty as a fish."
I ran to the bell; he meant to forestal me, and his hand fell on mine as it touched the handle. He kept his there while he spoke.
"Can you not be happy at Chandos a little longer?"
"Oh, sir, yes. But it will only make the leaving worse when it comes."
"Well, that lies in the future."
Yes, it did lie in it. And in the throbbing bliss his presence brought, I was content to let it lie. Parting could not be worse in the future than it would be now.