"Oh, but, dear Oliver!"--she brought her face nearer to his, and he saw the tears in her eyes--"one's own mother ought to know first of all. Mamma would be so hurt--she would never forgive me. Let me pay this horrid visit--and then go home and tell my people--if you really, really wish it. Afterward of course, I shall come back to you--and Cousin Lucy shall know--and at Christmas--everybody."
"What visit? You are going to Eastham?--to the Tresham's?" It was a cry of incredulous pain.
"How can I get out of it, dear Oliver? Evelyn has been so ill!--and she's been depending on me--and I owe her so much. You know how good she was to me in the Season."
He lifted himself again on his cushions, surveying her ironically--his eyes sunken and weak--his aspect ghastly.
"Well, how long do you mean to stay? Is Lord Philip going to be there?"
"What do I care whether he is or not!"
"You said you were longing to know him."
"That was before you were ill."
"I don't see any logic in that remark." He lay looking at her. Then suddenly he put out an arm, pulled her down to him feebly, and kissed her. But the movement hurt him. He turned away with some broken words--or, rather, moans--stifled against his pillows.
"Dear, do lie still. Shall I read to you?"