“Why, you know you ought to lie down and to rest,” I tried to say with discretion, but it was all one what I said:  it would have irritated him just the same.

“I am rather tired of this surveillance,” he exclaimed.  “It is almost time I should be permitted to express a wish about the disposition of myself.  As I do not happen to want to go to sleep, I beg I may be allowed the pleasure of your society for a little while.”

“I don’t think it would give you much pleasure, and you know you don’t feel as well to-day.”

“Again, may I be permitted to judge how I feel myself?”

“Oh, yes, of course, but—­”

“But what, Miss d’Estree?—­No doubt you want to go yourself—­I am sorry I thought of detaining you (with a gesture of dismissal).  I beg you to excuse me, A sick man is apt to be unreasonable.”

“Oh, as to that, you know entirely well I do not want to go.  You are unreasonable, indeed, when you talk as you do now.  I only went away for your benefit.”

“Qui s’excuse, s’accuse.”

“But I am not excusing myself; and if you put it so I will go away at once.”

“Si vous voulez—­”

“But I don’t ’voulez’—­Oh, how disagreeable you can be.”

“You will stay?”

“Pauline!” called Sophie from across the hall.

“There!” I exclaimed, interpreting it as the voice of conscience.  I left my work-basket and book upon the table, and went out of the room.

“You called me?” I said, following her into the parlor, where, shutting the door, she motioned me to a seat beside her.  She had a slip of paper and an envelope in her hand, and seemed a little ill at ease.

“I’ve just had a telegram from Richard,” she said.  “He’s coming home to-night by the eleven o’clock train.  It’s so odd altogether.  I don’t know why he’s coming.  But you may as well read his message yourself,” she said with a forced manner, handing me the paper.  It was as follows: 

Send carriage for me to eleven-thirty train to-night.  Remember my injunctions, our last conversation, and your promises.”

“Well?” I said, looking up, bewildered and not violently interested, for I was secretly listening to the quick shutting of the library-door.

“Why, you see,” she returned, with a forced air of confidence that made me involuntarily shrink from her; I think she even laid her hand upon my sleeve, or made some gesture of familiarity which was unusual—­

“You see, that last conversation was—­about you.  Richard is annoyed at—­at your intimacy with Mr. Langenau.  You know just as well as I do how he feels, for no doubt he’s spoken to you himself.”

“He never has,” I said, quite shortly.

“No?” and she looked rather chagrined.  “Well—­but at all events you know how he feels.  Girls ar’nt slow generally to find out about those things.  And he is really very unhappy about it, very.  I wish, Pauline, you’d give it up, child.  It’s gone quite far enough; now don’t you think so yourself?  Mr. Langenau isn’t the sort of man to be serious about, you know.  It’s all very well, just for a summer’s amusement.  But, you know, you mustn’t go too far.  I’m sure, dear, you’re not angry with me:  now you understand just what I mean, don’t you?”