“No. That is quite the case.”
“And be careful about drafts.”
“Yes. Is that all?”
“I think so,” returned Mrs. Lyndsay, doubtfully, and then went before Anne into Carington’s room.
“I have brought you a new nurse. My sister-in-law will look after you this morning. You must not let her talk to you.” And having thus doubly provided against the deadly malaria of conversation, she went out as Anne sat down.
Carington liked the maiden lady, with her neat dress and erect carriage, which no suffering had taught the stoop of the invalid; moreover, her unusualness pleased him. Her talk, too, was out of the common, and full of enterprise. What she used of the learning or sentiment of others seemed also to acquire a new personal flavor. Mrs. Westerly had once said, “When Miss Anne quotes Shakspere, it loses the quality of mere quotation. She can’t say anything like the rest of us.”
As she sat down, she said demurely, “I am not to talk to you. Let us gossip: that is not talk.”
“Oh, no,” he said, joyously. “I am just about in a state for mere chat, which involves no thinking. Mrs. Lyndsay has been severe.”
“I have to fight her a little myself, dear, good, obstinate creature as she is. I suppose she did not talk to you at all,—not a word, I presume?”
“I decline, Miss Anne, to betray the weaknesses of my nurses.”