Decima left the room with Jan. Lucy Tempest went to the window, threw it open, drew an easy-chair, with its cushions, near to it, and then returned to the sofa.
"Will you come to the window?" said she to Lionel. "Jan said you were to sit there, and I have put your chair ready."
Lionel unclosed his eyelids. "I am better here, child, thank you."
"But you heard what Jan said—that you were not going the right way to get well."
"It does not much matter, Lucy, whether I get well, or whether I don't," he answered wearily.
Lucy sat down; not on her favourite stool, but on a low chair, and fixed her eyes upon him gravely.
"Do you know what Mr. Cust would say to that?" she asked. "He would tell you that you were ungrateful to God. You are already half-way towards getting well."
"I know I am, Lucy. But I am nearly tired of life."
"It is only the very old who say that, or ought to say it. I am not sure that they ought—even if they were a hundred. But you are young. Stay! I will find it for you."
He was searching about for his handkerchief. Lucy found it, fallen on the floor at the back of the sofa. She brought it round to him, and he gently laid hold of her hand as he took it.