“This room is stiflingly hot,” said Dr. Bretton, rising with sudden impatience. “Lucy—mother—will you come a moment to the fresh air?”
“Go with him, Lucy,” said Mrs. Bretton. “I would rather keep my seat.”
Willingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham’s desire must take precedence of my own; I accompanied him.
We found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem to feel it; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spread cloudless. I was wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on the pavement; in passing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye.
“You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?”
“I was only fearing that you were grieved.”
“Not at all: so be of good cheer—as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, my persuasion is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I may seem to droop for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment has yet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at home?”
“Generally.”
“I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady for a dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thank you, Miss Fanshawe!” And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, and made a mock reverence.
“Yes,” he said, “I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts in ten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bled from a mere puncture: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice.”