No, the heat was not overwhelming. Yet Eleanor grew paler and feebler. Lucy hovered round her in a constantly increasing anxiety. And presently she began to urge retreat, and change of plan. It was madness to stay in the south. Why not more at once to Switzerland, or the Tyrol?
Eleanor shook her head.
'But I can't have you stay here,' cried Lucy in distress.
And coming closer, she chose her favourite seat on the floor of the loggia and laid her head against Eleanor's arm.
'Oughtn't you to go home?' she said, in a low urgent voice, caressing Eleanor's hand. 'Send me back to Uncle Ben. I can go home any time. But you ought to be in Scotland. Let me write to Miss Manisty!'
Eleanor laid her hand on her mouth. 'You promised!' she said, with her sweet stubborn smile.
'But it isn't right that I should let you run these risks. It—it—isn't kind to me.'
'I don't run risks. I am as well here as anywhere. The Orvieto doctor saw no objection to my being here—for a month, at any rate.'
'Send me home,' murmured Lucy again, softly kissing the hand she held. 'I don't know why I ever came.'
Eleanor started. Her lips grew pinched and bitter. But she only said: