“Yes!” said Cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence of the monosyllable.
“Why?”
For what, indeed, had he come there? He vividly realized that he should have prepared some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could offer only the truth—or so much of it as seemed expedient.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” he said.
“But certainly,” she smiled. “I thank you, sir; but, yes, I am—all right.”
She said no more; Cartaret felt as if he could never speak again. However, speak he must.
“Well, you know,” he said, “I hadn’t seen you anywhere about, and I was rather worried.”
“Chitta takes of me the best care.”
“Yes, but, you see, I didn’t know and I—Oh, yes: I wanted to see whether that turpentine worked.”
“The turpentine!” All suspicion of amusement fled her eyes: she was contrite. “I comprehend. How careless of Chitta not at once to have returned it to you.”