"A little," he answered, "but not too tired for some reading."
He lay down, and Philippa drew a chair to her accustomed place and began to read. She read steadily for a while, but presently she noticed that Francis was paying no attention to the story, although he had hitherto been interested in it, so she suggested some music. He assented readily enough, and she went to the piano and played several of his favourite pieces, but she could see he was not listening. She took up a song with the intention of singing, but laid it down again, feeling thankful that he had not asked for it, for the effort would have been beyond her to-night. To-morrow she would be calmer and stronger.
But the music soothed her and she sat on, playing from memory, passing from one thing to another almost without heeding what she was doing. Many times before she had played to Francis like this in the earlier days when he had been too weak for sustained conversation, but never had his silence lasted so long as to-night. It rather alarmed her at last, and she rose and went to his side.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked. "Are you sure you are not feeling ill?"
"What should be the matter?" he replied. "No, thank you, darling, I am not feeling ill, but——" he passed his hand over his forehead with a gesture of perplexity—"I seem to be thinking of so many things to-night, that is all."
"Do not tire yourself with thinking," she said earnestly. "Put thought aside until you are more fit for it—or let me do the thinking for you. What is it that you want to know?"
"Oh, so many things," he answered, with an attempt at lightness. Then rising he added: "Perhaps I am a little tired. Will you ring the bell for Keen? I think I will go to bed. I am sorry, dearest, but I don't feel like talking to-night. The fresh air has gone to my head, I think; but I shall be all right after a night's rest."
He kissed her as usual and she left him, feeling reassured about him. The expedition of the morning was enough to account for a little extra fatigue.