Benjulia got up. “You don’t want me any longer,” he said. “Now, Mr. Keeper, give me back the monkey.” He dismissed the man, and tucked the monkey under one arm as if it had been a bundle. “There are your friends,” he resumed, pointing to the end of the walk. “Good-day!”
Carmina stopped him. Too anxious to stand on ceremony, she laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off—not angrily: just brushing it away, as he might have brushed away the ash of his cigar or a splash of mud in the street.
“What does this fainting fit mean?” she asked timidly. “Is Ovid going to be ill?”
“Seriously ill—unless you do the right thing with him, and do it at once.” He walked away. She followed him, humbly and yet resolutely. “Tell me, if you please,” she said, “what we are to do.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “Send him away.”
She returned, and knelt down by Ovid—still slowly reviving. With a fond and gentle hand, she wiped the moisture from his forehead.
“Just as we were beginning to understand each other!” she said to herself, with a sad little sigh.
CHAPTER XV.
Two days passed. In spite of the warnings that he had received, Ovid remained in London.