"Have you not come to me?"
"Of course I have. But, dearest, you look ill. Has anything happened since we parted?"
"What should happen?" she said, pushing my hair off my forehead. "But I am sick—I am sick for wanting you."
"I could not come before, as I told you. But now that you have me, will you brighten up? I do not like your worn air. Those white cheeks do not become you."
"You will give me health, Arthur."
"If God permits me!" I said fervently, pained by the great pathos of her eyes and the troubled frightened expression of her face. "I have brought a friend with me, Geraldine. Perhaps he will help me to make you well."
"What friend?"
"Did not I tell you of my intention to bring a friend from London?"
"Did you?" she asked, with a bewildered look. Then feeling in her pocket she produced my letter. "How often have I kissed it!" she said, as though to herself; "but I do not want it, now that I have him with me."
"There," said I, opening the letter and pointing to the passage in it: "do you not remember reading those lines?"