Bartlett, struggling uneasily for his habitual lightness.—"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Wyatt. I will go abroad as soon as possible. I'm going out in a boat this morning to work at a bit on the point of the island yonder, and I'll take lessons in sea-faring." Bartlett, managing at last to get fairly behind Miss Wyatt's chair, indulges himself in a long, low sigh of relief, and taking out his handkerchief rubs his face with it.
Constance, with sudden, meek compunction.—"I've been detaining you."
Bartlett, politely coming forward again.—"Oh no, not at all! I'm afraid I've tired you."
Constance.—"No, I'm glad to have you stay." In the unconscious movement necessary to follow Bartlett in his changes of position, the young girl has loosened one of the pillows that prop her head. It slowly disengages itself and drops to the floor. Bartlett, who has been crushing his brush against the ball of his thumb, gives a start of terror, and looks from Constance to the pillow, and back again to Constance in despair.
Constance.—"Never mind." She tries to adjust her head to the remaining pillows, and then desists in evident discomfort.
Bartlett, in great agony of spirit.—"I—I'm afraid you miss it."
Constance.—"Oh no."
Bartlett.—"Shall I call your mother, Miss Wyatt?"
Constance.—"No. Oh no. She will be here presently. Thank you so much."