"What do you mean?"
"I mean to have a merry Christmas—by your leave."
Christmas! that was what the doctor had said. Was it so far without her leave? Eleanor felt angry. That did not hinder her feeling frightened.
"You cannot have it in the way you propose, Mr. Carlisle. I am not ready for that."
"You will be," he said coolly. "I shall be obliged to go up to London after Christmas; then I mean to instal you in Berkeley Square; and in the summer you shall go to Switzerland with me. Now tell me, my darling, what you are unhappy about?"
Eleanor felt tongue-tied and powerless. The last words had been said very affectionately, and as she was silent they were repeated.
"It is nothing you would understand."
"Try me."
"It is nothing that would interest you at all."
"Not interest me!" said he; and if his manner had been self-willed, it was also now as tender and gentle as it was possible to be. He folded Eleanor in his arms caressingly and waited for her words. "Not interest me! Do you know that from your riding-cap to the very gloves you pull on and off, there is nothing that touches you that does not interest me. And now I hear my wife—she is almost that, Eleanor,—tell Dr. Cairnes that she is not happy. I must know why."