THE REGRETTABLE DEMENTIA OF A CONVALESCENT


"You know you _please_ me--_really_ you do!"

Allan, perfect youth of the hazel eyes and tawny locks, bent upon
inquiring Nancy a look of wholly pleasant reassurance, as one wishful to
persuade her from doubt.

"I'm not joking a bit. When I say you please me, I mean it."

His look became rather more expansive with a smile that seemed meant to
sympathise guardedly with her in her necessary rejoicing.

Meekly, for a long second, Nancy drew the black curtains of her eyes,
murmuring from out the friendly gloom:

"It's very good of you, Allan!"

Then, before he could tell reasons for his pleasing, which she divined he
was about to do, the curtains were up and the eyes wide open to him with a
question about Bernal.

He turned to the house and pointed up to the two open windows of the
study, in and out of which the warm breeze puffed the limp white curtains.

"He's there, poor chap! He was able to get that far for the first time
yesterday, leaning on me and Clytie."

"And to think I never knew he was sick until we came from town last night.