“But what are you doing at home in the middle of the morning?” she demanded.
He did not answer her. The subdued light which crept under the porch and came in through the fan shaped window over the door fell on his face.
“Are you sick?” said Euphrasia. In all her life she had never seen him look like that.
He shook his head, but did not attempt to rise. A Hilary Vane without vigour!
“No,” he said, “no. I just came up here from the train to—get somethin' I'd left in my room.”
“A likely story!” said Euphrasia. “You've never done that in thirty years. You're sick, and I'm a-going for the doctor.”
She put her hand to his forehead, but he thrust it away and got to his feet, although in the effort he compressed his lips and winced.
“You stay where you are,” he said; “I tell you I'm not sick, and I'm going down to the square. Let the doctors alone—I haven't got any use for 'em.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and went out and slammed it in her face. By the time she had got it open again—a crack—he had reached the sidewalk, and was apparently in full possession of his powers and faculties.