"You're feverish now," Clare answered quietly. "I mustn't let you talk so
much."
"You're as bad as Jake; he wouldn't answer my questions," Dick grumbled.
"Then, you see, I want to talk."
Clare laughed, as if she found it a relief to do so. "That doesn't matter
if it will do you harm."
"I'll be very quiet," Dick pleaded. "I'll only speak a word or two now
and then. But don't go away!"
Clare sat down, and after a few minutes Dick resumed: "You passed my door
to-day, and it's curious that I knew your step, though, if you can
understand, without actually recognizing it. It was as if I was dreaming
something that was real. The worst of being ill is that your brain gets
working independently, bringing things up on its own account, without
your telling it. Anyhow, I remembered the iron steps with the glow of the
window through the curtain, and how you slipped--you wore little white
shoes, and the moonlight shone through the branches on your dress."
He broke off and frowned, for a vague, unpleasant memory obtruded itself.
Something that had had disastrous consequences had happened in the quiet
garden, but he could not remember what it was.
"Why did Lucille call you ma mignonne?" he asked. "Doesn't it mean a
petted child?"
"Not always. She was my nurse when I was young."
"Then you have lived here before?"
"Not here, but in a country where there are people like Lucille, though
it's long ago. But you mustn't speak another word. Go to sleep at once!"
"Then stay where I can see you and I'll try," Dick answered; and although
he did not mean to do so, presently closed his eyes.
Clare waited until his quiet breathing showed that he was asleep, and
then crossed the floor softly and stood looking down on him. There was
light enough to see his face and it was worn and thin. His weakness moved
her to pity, but there was something else. He had remembered that night
in England, he knew her step and voice, and his rambling talk had caused
her a thrill, for she remembered the night in England well. Brandon had
shielded her from a man whom she had good ground for wishing to avoid. He
had, no doubt, not quite understood the situation, but had seen that she
needed help and chivalrously offered it. She knew he could be trusted and
had without much hesitation made her unconventional request. He had then
been marked by strong vitality and cheerful confidence, but he was ill
and helpless now, and his weakness appealed to her as his vigor had not
done. He was, in a way, dependent on her, and Clare felt glad this was
so. She blushed as she smoothed the coverlet across his shoulders and
then quietly stole away.