She pointed to the ground as she spoke. There, half covered by her dress, lay a heap of crinkled cotton; no doubt the unravelled mat. Charlotte was plying her needle again with assiduity, her eyes studying the instructions at her elbow.
“How very quickly you must have come in!” exclaimed George.
“Come in from where?” asked Charlotte.
“As I went up to the door, I saw you stooping near the grove on the left, something dark over your head.”
“You dreamt it,” said Charlotte. “I have not been out.”
“But I certainly did see you,” repeated George. “I could not be mistaken. You—were I fanciful, Charlotte, I should say you were in mischief, and wanted to escape observation. You were stooping under the shade of the trees and running along quickly.”
Charlotte lifted her face and looked at him with wondering eyes. “Are you joking, or are you in earnest?” asked she.
“I never was more in earnest in my life. I could have staked my existence upon its being you.”
“Then I assure you I have not stirred out of this room since I came into it from dinner. What possessed me to try this senseless work, I cannot tell,” she added, flinging it across the floor in a momentary accession of temper. “It has given me a headache, and they brought me some tea.”
“You are looking very poorly,” remarked George.