“Do you like to be nursed?” asked she, as she put the tray on a table, and moved it up to the bedside.

“No!” said Bressant, emphatically, and with an intonation of great surprise.

“Oh! why not?” faltered Cornelia, quite taken aback.

“I hate disabled people; they’re monstrosities, and had better not be at all.  I wouldn’t nurse them.”

“You think there’s no pleasure in doing things for people who cannot help themselves?” demanded Cornelia, indignantly.

“There can be no pleasure in nursing,” reiterated he.  “It might be very pleasant to be nursed—­by any one who is beautiful—­if one did not need the nursing!”

Cornelia was becoming so accustomed to Bressant’s undisguised manners that she forgot to be disturbed by this guileless compliment.  Many hours afterward, when she was alone in her chamber, the words recurred to her, devoid of the version his manner had given them, and then they brought the blood gently to her cheeks.

“You’re very foolish,” said she, as she poured out some tea, and cut up a mutton-chop into mouthfuls.  “Now, you have to drink this tea, though you wouldn’t the last time I poured you out a cup; and I’ll give you your chop.  Open your mouth.”

So the athlete of the day before was obliged to submit to having his tea-cup carried to his lips and tipped for him by a woman, and the chop administered bit by bit on a fork.  It was very degrading; but once in a while Cornelia accidentally touched him, or her face, lit up by interest in her occupation, came so near his own that he felt warm and thrilled, and went near to admit it was worth all the broken bones in the world, and the sacrifice of pride accompanying them.

Ere breakfast was over, Professor Valeyon entered with his slippers, his pipe, and a remarkably benevolent expression for one of such impending eyebrows.

“Well, my boy,” said he—­ever since the accident he had addressed Bressant thus—­“you look in a better humor with yourself this morning.  You’ll be well used to this room before you leave it,” he continued, with kindly gravity, as he felt his patient’s pulse.  “You’ll know all about the number and relative position of the bars and bunches of flowers on the wall-paper opposite, and how many feet and inches it is from the window-frame to the room-corner, and which pane of glass is the crookedest, and how much higher one post of your bedstead is than the other; and plenty more things of that kind.  And, to tell you the truth, my boy, I don’t believe a course of such studies, by way of variety, will do you any harm.  Now, let’s look at this collar-bone of yours.—­O Cornelia! you’d better be finishing your packing, hadn’t you?” he added, to his daughter, who was leaning on the back of his chair, sympathizing with the sick man to her heart’s content.  She walked obediently to the door, but, before she disappeared, turned and sent back a smile charged with all the warmth of her ardent, womanly nature.  Bressant got the whole benefit of it; and it lingered with him most of the morning.