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There he sat, with his head hanging
down, the shadowy counterfeit of an old man. In her anxiety, Stella
approached him, and put her hand caressingly on his head. It was burning
hot. "O!" she cried, "you _are_ ill, and you are trying to hide it from
me."
He put his arm round her waist and made her sit on his knee. "Nothing is
the matter with me," he said, with an uneasy laugh. "What have you got
in your hand? A letter?"
"Yes. Addressed to you and not opened yet." He took it out of her hand,
and threw it carelessly on a sofa near him. "Never mind that now! Let
us talk." He paused, and kissed her, before he went on. "My darling, I
think you must be getting tired of Vange?"
"Oh, no! I can be happy anywhere with you--and especially at Vange.
You don't how this noble old house interests me, and how I admire the
glorious country all round it."
He was not convinced. "Vange is very dull," he said, obstinately; "and
your friends will be wanting to see you. Have you heard from your mother
lately?"
"No. I am surprised she has not written.


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