A few days passed. Dora was forced to go back to work; but as she was to take up her quarters at the Merton Road house, and to write long accounts of Sandy to his mother every day, Lucy saw her depart with considerable equanimity. Dora left her patient on the sofa, a white and ghostly figure, but already talking eagerly of returning to Manchester in a week. When she heard the cab roll off, Lucy lay back on her cushions and counted the minutes till David should come in from the British Museum, whither, because of her improvement, he had gone to clear up one or two bibliographical points. She caressed the thought of being left alone with him, except for the nurse—left to that tender and special care he was bestowing on her so richly, and through which she seemed to hold and know him afresh.
When he came in she reproached him for being late, and both enjoyed and scouted his pleas in answer.
'Well, I don't care,' she said obstinately; 'I wanted you.'
Then she heaved a long sigh.
'David, I made nurse let me look at the horrid place this morning. I shall always be a fright—it's no good.'
But he knew her well enough to perceive that she was not really very downcast, and that she had already devised ways and means of hiding the mark as much as possible.
'It doesn't hurt or trouble you at all?' he asked her anxiously.
'No, of course not,' she said impatiently. 'It's getting well. Do ask nurse to bring me my tea.'
The nurse brought it, and she and David spoiled their invalid with small attentions.
'It's nice being waited on,' said Lucy when it was over, settling herself to rest with a little sigh of sensuous satisfaction.