"You don't look as ef there was much ailin' you;—and yet you look kind o' queer, too. I shouldn't wonder a bit ef you was a gettin' a fever. There's a red spot on one of your cheeks that's like fire. T'other one's pale enough. You must be in a fever, I guess, or you couldn't lie here with the window open."
"Leave it open—and just let me be quiet."
Miss Collins went down, marvelling to herself. But when Basil came home he found the flush spread to both cheeks, and a look in Diana's eyes that he did not like.
"How has the day been?" he asked, passing his hand over the flushed cheek and the disordered hair. Diana shrank and shivered and did not answer. He felt her pulse.
"Diana," said he, "what is the matter with you?"
She stared at him, in the utter difficulty of answering. "Basil"—she began, and stopped, not finding another word to add. For prevarication was an accomplishment Diana knew nothing of. She closed her eyes, that they might not see the figure standing there.
"Would you like me to fetch your mother to you?"
"No," she said, starting. "O no! Don't bring her, Basil."
"I will not," said he kindly. "Why should she not come?"
"Mother? never. Never, never! Not mother. I can't bear her"—said Diana strangely.