Queen Bee consented eagerly, though with some trepidation, for she had not seen her cousin since his accident, and besides, she did not know how to begin about Philip Carey. She ran to take off her bonnet, while Henrietta went to announce her coming. She knocked at the door, Henrietta opened it, and coming in, she saw Fred lying on the sofa by the fire, in his dressing-gown, stretched out in that languid listless manner that betokens great feebleness. There were the purple marks of leeches on his temples; his hair had been cropped close to his head; his face was long and thin, without a shade of colour, but his eyes looked large and bright; and he smiled and held out his hand: “Ah, Queenie, how d’ye do?” “How d’ye do, Fred? I am glad you are better.” “You see I have the asses’ ears after all,” said he, pointing to his own, which were very prominent in his shorn and shaven condition. Beatrice could not very easily call up a smile, but she made an effort, and succeeded, while she said, “I should have complimented you on the increased wisdom of your looks. I did not know the shape of your head was so like papa’s.” “Is Aunt Geoffrey come?” asked Fred. “Yes,” said his sister: “but mamma thinks you had better not see her till to-morrow.” “I wish Uncle Geoffrey was not going,” said Fred. “Nobody else has the least notion of making one tolerably comfortable.” “O, your mamma, Fred!” said Queen Bee. “O yes, mamma, of course! But then she is getting fagged.” “Mamma says she is quite unhappy to have kept him so long from his work in London,” said Henrietta; “but I do not know what we should have done without him.” “I do not know what we shall do now,” said Fred, in a languid and doleful tone. The Queen Bee, thinking this a capital opportunity, spoke with almost alarmed eagerness, “O yes, Fred, you will get on famously; you will enjoy having my mamma so much, and you are so much better already, and Philip Carey manages you so well--” “Manages!” said Fred; “ay, and I’ll tell you how, Queenie; just as the man managed his mare when he fed her on a straw a day. I believe he thinks I am a ghool, and can live on a grain of rice. I only wish he knew himself what starvation is. Look here! you can almost see the fire through my hand, and if I do but lift up my head, the whole room is in a merry-go-round. And that is nothing but weakness; there is nothing else on earth the matter with me, except that I am starved down to the strength of a midge!” “Well, but of course he knows,” said Busy Bee; “Papa says he has had an excellent education, and he must know.” “To be sure he does, perfectly well: he is a sharp fellow, and knows how to keep a patient when he has got one.” “How can you talk such nonsense, Fred? One comfort is, that it is a sign you are getting well, or you would not have spirits to do it.” “I am talking no nonsense,” said Fred, sharply; “I am as serious as possible.”