Constance.—"Yes, go, mother. I'm perfectly well here. I like being alone well enough." As Mrs. Wyatt, after a moment's reluctance, goes out, the girl's heavy eyelids fall, and she lies motionless against her pillows, while the fan, released from her careless hold, slides slowly over the shawl, and drops with a light clash upon the floor. She starts at the sound, and utters a little involuntary cry at sight of Bartlett, who stands irresolute in the doorway on her right. He makes as if to retreat, but at a glance from her he remains.
II.
Bartlett and Constance.
Bartlett, with a sort of subdued gruffness.—"I'm afraid I disturbed you."
Constance, passively.—"No, I think it was my fan. It fell."
Bartlett.—"I'm glad I can lay the blame on the fan." He comes abruptly forward and picks it up for her. She makes no motion to receive it, and he lays it on her lap.
Constance, starting from the abstraction in which she has been gazing at him.—"Oh! thanks."
Bartlett, with constraint.—"I hope you're better this morning?"