omelette that Wiggleswick had tried to make they had used for months
afterwards as a kettle-holder; but Emmy did not prattle. She sat in a
corner, listlessly turning over the leaves of a novel and taking an
extraordinary lack of interest in the general conversation. The usual
headache and neuralgia supplied her excuse. She looked pale, ill, and
worried; and worry on a baby face is a lugubrious and pitiful spectacle.

After Mrs. Oldrieve had retired for the night, and while Zora happened to
be absent from the room in search of an atlas, Septimus and Emmy were left
alone for a moment.

"I'm so sorry you have a headache," said Septimus sympathetically. "Why
don't you go to bed?"

"I hate bed. I can't sleep," she replied, with an impatient shake of the
body. "You mustn't mind me. I'm sorry I'm so rotten--ah! well then--such an
uninspiring companion, if you like," she added, seeing that the word had
jarred on him. Then she rose. "I suppose I bore you. I had better go, as
you suggest, and get out of the way."

He intercepted her petulant march to the door.

"I wish you'd tell me what's the matter. It isn't only a headache."

"It's Hell and the Devil and all his angels," said Emmy, "and I'd like to
murder somebody."

"You can murder me, if it would do you any good," said Septimus.

"I believe you'd let me," she said, yielding. "You're a good sort." She