"See what, Lucy?" he continued, speaking gently, not in anger.
"I see now much you think of her, and how ill it makes you. When Jan asked just now if you had anything on your mind to keep you back, I knew what it was."
Lionel grew hot and cold with a sudden fear. "Did I say anything in my delirium?"
"Nothing at all—that I heard of. I was not with you. I do not think anybody suspects that you are ill because—because of her."
"Ill because of her!" he sharply repeated, the words breaking from him in his agony, in his shrinking dread at finding so much suspected. "I am ill from fever. What else should I be ill from?"
Lucy went close to his chair and stood before him meekly.
"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I cannot help seeing things, but I did not mean to make you angry."
He rose, steadying himself by the table, and laid his hand upon her head, with the same fond motion that a father might have used.
"Lucy, I am not angry—only vexed at being watched so closely," he concluded, his lips parting with a faint smile.
In her earnest, truthful, serious face of concern, as it was turned up to him, he read how futile it would be to persist in his denial.