[Illustration: He stood looking at her, his hand still on the
hammock rope.]

He stood looking at her, his hand still on the hammock-rope. He was
conscious only of a friendly feeling of compassion for this fair
young creature, built for vigour and an active life, now condemned
for months, it might be years, of weariness and pain. Whether any
unconscious keenness of scrutiny crept into his eyes or not, is not
known; but as Vesta Blyth looked up and met their gaze, a wave of
angry crimson rushed over her face and neck.

"Doctor Strong," she said, violently, her voice low and vibrating,
as some women's are in passion, "I must request you _not_ to look at
me!"

Geoffrey started, and coloured in his turn. "I beg your pardon!" he
said. "I was not aware--I assure you I had no intention of being rude,
Miss Blyth."

"You were not rude!" Vesta swept on. "I am rude; I am unreasonable,
I am absurd. I can't help it. I will not be looked at professionally.
Half the people in this village would welcome your professional
glance as a beam from heaven, and bask in it, and drop every symptom
as if it were a pearl, but I am not a 'case.' I am simply a human
being, who asks nothing but to be let alone."

She stopped abruptly, her bosom heaving, her eyes like black agates
with fire behind them, looking straight past him at the trees beyond.
"If you wish to put me to the last humiliation," she added, hurriedly,
"you may wait and have the satisfaction of seeing me cry; if not--"