"Our patient is much better this morning," said the Count to her, on the fourth day. "Won't you come upstairs, and see him?"
"No," she said, softly, looking down.
She was more incomprehensible to him than ever. Formerly she seemed to be quite familiar with him; she was happy and careless in his presence; she responded to his nonsense with nonsense of her own. Now she seemed to have been translated to another sphere. He was no longer jovial and jocular with her. He watched and studied the Madonna-like calm of the clear dark face, until he felt a sort of awe stealing over him; the intense dark life of her eyes was a mystery to him.
In these few days she began to wonder if she were not rapidly growing old: it seemed to her that everything around her was becoming so serious and so sad.
"And if I do look old, who will care?" she said to herself, bitterly.
The Count, on the other hand, fancied she had never been so beautiful; and, as he looked on her, he tried to gladden his heart by the thought that he was not a mercenary man. To prove to her and himself that he was not, he swore a mental oath that he would be rejoiced to see her a beggar, that so he might lift her up to his high estate. Indeed, so mad was the man at the time—so much beside himself was he—that he was ready to forswear the only aim of his life, and would have married Annie Brunel only too willingly, had it been proved to him that she was the daughter of a gipsy.
"Another day's rest is all that the doctor has prescribed," said the Count. "I hope to see our friend down to breakfast to-morrow morning."
"Is he so much better?" she asked.
She inquired in so earnest a tone that he fancied her anxiety was to know if the damage she had done was nearly mended—and so he said:
"Better? He is quite better now. I think he might come down and see us this morning, unless you would prefer paying him a visit."