“Certainly, Father,” responded the Vicomte politely; and as the Curé came round to the other side of the bed he sat up, shaking back his loosened hair, and unfastened his shirt. “Madame has been dressing it, has she not? It is rather a pity to disturb her work,” observed the priest as he gently unwound the bandages. “But I should like to see the place. . . . My dear Louis, it is only half healed!” “I know it,” said the sufferer, smiling ruefully. “It keeps on breaking out again, and that is why I am getting so tired of the confounded thing.” “Does it pain you more when I touch it?” asked his visitor, making the experiment. “It makes no difference. Or perhaps I should be nearer the truth,” added Louis in his most graceful manner, “if I said that it made it easier.” The priest smiled too, as his long skilful fingers replaced the bandage. The two understood each other, as always, very well. “Now lie down, my son. This needs looking after, and, please God, we shall have you as sound as ever in a day or two. You have not had a fair chance. I wish I could ease the pain.” “Oh, that’s nothing,” said Saint-Ermay, obeying. “Only it is wearing to the temper. I have it every night now, but it was rather worse this evening. By the way, you understood why—why I went out without your blessing? Just then I was afraid of alarming my aunt.” “I quite understood.” “I thought you would forgive me. I believe I scarcely said good-night to Gilbert either. . . . I really did not quite know what I was doing. . . . Don’t go, Father!” The priest returned to the other side of the bed, where there was a chair drawn up, and sat down in it. “Louis,” he said with gentle reproach, “it is not conversation but sleep that you require.” “Well, I can’t sleep,” retorted the Vicomte. “And I don’t know that I want to talk. I only want you to stay a little.” His tone was light, but there was something of strain in the smile with which he slipped his right hand over the bedclothes to his visitor. M. des Graves took the hand between his own. “What am I to do with you?” he asked, with a charming half-playful severity. “Do you want me to tell you how glad I am to have you back—for I believe that I have not done it yet?” “It is strange to be back,” said Louis, half to himself. “There was a time, you know, Father . . . in Paris . . . when I did not think that I should ever come back.” He gave a toss in the bed. “One doesn’t ever really come back, does one?” “My dear Louis, what do you mean?” exclaimed the priest, rather startled, as the bright eyes fixed themselves on his. The Vicomte gave an odd little laugh, and looked away again. “I meant . . . you never come back the same . . . anywhere . . . and when——” He stopped and caught his breath. “Forgive me—I believe I am talking nonsense.”