Imogen gazed at her with eyes full of wondering pity. How could she be so cheerful? She had heard that consumptive patients never realise their state: it must be so in this case.
“I must not disturb you,” she said gently.
“It is a very nice mild day. May I say that I hope the air here will do you a great deal of good?” and she was moving on when the invalid stopped her.
“Do stay and talk to me for a minute or two, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I have noticed you passing so often; now and then with—your mother, I suppose?”
Imogen gave a sign of assent.
“But more often alone. And I wondered—” But here she stopped rather abruptly. Imogen looked up; she was carrying a little folding-stool, which she set down beside the stranger’s chair. “I am rather tired,” she said with a sigh; “but please, what did you wonder?” The young lady smiled, but shook her head “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will tell you: it might sound impertinent—from an utter stranger. If—if possibly I got to know you even a little, I think I would say it.”
“That is not likely to happen, I fear,” Imogen answered. “We are leaving here on Monday. Are you going to stay all the winter?”
For the first time a rush of sudden colour overspread the lovely face, leaving it more delicately pale than before. Imogen began to change her mind about the girl’s age. Something in her tone and manner made her feel as if the invalid were some years her senior; a slight, very slight touch of gentle authority made itself felt, as if the speaker were not accustomed to have her words or opinion lightly set aside.
“I do not know about the whole winter,” she replied. “But I feel sure—quite sure—I shall never be able to go abroad, as my friends are still hoping. We are to have a grand consultation in a day or two: others of my friends are coming on Saturday.”
“But you could scarcely find a milder place in England than this,” said Imogen, a little puzzled by her manner.