"She can go this very minute; that would be the best plan," said the old t'ai-t'ai playfully. "Will you go now, Nancy?"
Nancy shook her head back and forth quickly like a punished child refusing to be good.
"There, you see," exclaimed the woman, half jesting, half sorry, "you see how stubborn and self-willed she is. Now that I have become old and helpless even she won't obey me."
A deep silence followed, during which everyone seemed wondering what to say.
"No, it's no use," went on the t'ai-t'ai at last, "I've tried my hardest to persuade her to go. But she refuses. She must wait till I am dead. He will stay in Paoling?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes," the doctor answered for Ronald.
"Good. He will not need to wait long."
Even the doctor, cheerful as he had been, was not brave enough to contradict her with a lie. He had directed Nancy in all that she could do—all that anyone could do, now, he thought to himself. Promising to return early in the morning, he took Ronald away with him.
Ronald could not speak. His brain carried a picture of the marvelous old woman lying shrunken and helpless on the couch, her face burning with fever, her eyes, wistful and bright, searching him for every sign that he was fit to marry Nancy. The girl he loved so utterly seemed almost a shadow in comparison; he had only ghostlike glimpses of her averted face. With a deep groan he wondered if he were ever going to win her.
As soon as the doctor had left, Nancy's stepmother and her mother-in-law came to inquire what he had said, but the t'ai-t'ai did not encourage them to stay. She was doing as well as one could hope, she told them; she was tired and did not want to talk. She knew that her daughter would be filled with curiosity about Ronald's visit, but she would explain nothing, only asking to be left alone, with Nancy watching her.