“Not at all,” protested Deacon faintly, and conscious that he was making a fool of himself. “I think I have perhaps been overdoing it rather of late. Forgive me if I sit down.”
He sank on the cushioned divan, his heart beating furiously, while Madame touched the little bell, whereupon one of the servants entered.
She spoke in Chinese, pointing to the incense-burner.
Ah Li bowed and removed the censer. As the door softly reclosed:
“You are better?” she whispered, sweetly solicitous, and, seating herself beside Deacon, she laid her hand lightly upon his arm.
“Quite,” he replied hoarsely; “please do not worry about me. I am wondering what has become of Annesley.”
“Ah, the poor man!” exclaimed Madame, with a silver laugh, and began to busy herself with the teacups. “He remembered, as he was looking at my new Leonardo, an appointment which he had quite forgotten.”
“I can understand his forgetting anything under the circumstances.”
Madame de Medici raised a tiny cup and bent slightly toward him. He felt that he was losing control of himself, and, averting his eyes, he stooped and smelled the orchid in his buttonhole. Then, accepting the cup, he was about to utter some light commonplace when the faintness returned overwhelmingly, and, hurriedly replacing the cup upon the tray, he fell back among the cushions. The stifling perfume of the place seemed to be choking him.
“Ah, poor boy! You are really not at all well. How sorry I am!”