She was still chafing his hands when he
slowly opened his eyes. With a start, he made a quick attempt to push
aside her hand and rise. But she gently restrained him.
"Eh--what!" he stammered, throwing his face back from hers with an
effort and trying to turn it to the wall.
"You have been ill," she said quietly. "Drink this."
With his face still turned away he lifted the cup to his chattering
teeth. When he had drained it he threw a trembling glance round the
room and at the door.
"There's no one been here but myself," she said quickly. "I happened to
see the door open as I passed. I didn't think it worth while to call
any one."
The searching look he gave her turned into an expression of relief,
which, to her infinite uneasiness, again feebly lightened into one of
antiquated gallantry. He drew the dressing-gown around him with an air.
"Ah! it is a goddess, Mademoiselle, that has deigned to enter the cell
where--where--I amuse myself. It is droll, is it not? I came here to
make--what you call--the experiment of your father's fabric.
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