“Where am I?” he asked, as if he were speaking out of a dream. And she told him what she could. But she had not heard those suspicious words of old Coney’s.
It was some minutes yet before he got much sense into him, or seemed fully to understand. He fell back in the chair then, with a deep sigh, keeping Anne’s hand in his.
“Shall I get you anything, papa?” she asked. “You had eaten scarcely any dinner, they say. Would you like a little drop of brandy-and-water?”
“Why was not your dress ready?”
“My dress!” exclaimed Anne.
“She said so to me, when I asked why you did not come to table. Not made, or washed, or ironed; or something.”
Anne felt rather at sea. “There’s nothing the matter with my dresses, papa,” she said. “But never mind them—or me. Will you go back to dinner? Or shall I get you anything here?”
“I don’t want to go back; I don’t want anything,” he answered. “Go and finish yours, my dear.”
“I have had mine,” she said, with a faint blush. For indeed her dinner had consisted of some bread-and-butter in the kitchen, eaten over the French stew-pans. Dr. Lewis was gazing out at the trees, and seemed to be in thought.
“Perhaps you stayed away from home rather too long, papa,” she suggested. “You are not accustomed to travelling; and I think you are not strong enough for it. You looked very worn when you first came home; worn and ill.”