Constance meanwhile stood in some embarrassment with one hand on the back of a chair—a charming vision in her close fitting habit, and the same black tricorne that she had worn in the Lathom Woods, at Falloden’s side.
“I came to bring you a book, Otto, the book we talked of yesterday.” She held out a paper-covered volume. “But I mustn’t stay.”
“Oh, do stay!” he implored her. “Don’t bother about Mrs. Grundy. I’m so tired and so bored. Anybody may visit an invalid. Think this is a nursing home, and you’re my daily visitor. Falloden’s miles away on a drag-hunt. Ah, that’s right!” he cried delightedly, as he saw that she had seated herself. “Now you shall have some tea!”
She let him provide her, watching him the while with slightly frowning brows. How ill he looked—how ill! Her heart sank.
“Dear Otto, how are you? You don’t seem so well to-day.”
“I’ve been working myself to death. It won’t come right—this beastly andante. It’s too jerky—it wants liaison. And I can’t hear it—I can’t hear it!—that’s the devilish part of it.”
And taking his helpless hand out of the sling in which it had been resting, he struck it bitterly against the arm of his chair. The tears came to Connie’s eyes.
“Don’t!—you’ll hurt yourself. It’ll be all right—it’ll be all right! You’ll hear it in your mind.” And bending forward under a sudden impulse, she took the maimed hand in her two hands—so small and soft—and lifting it tenderly she put her lips to it.
He looked at her in amazement.
“You do that—for me?”