“It was such a strange coincidence that I should be sent here!” he says presently, moving his languid head so that he may get a better view of her, for she has sat down again, a little way off; “that _I_, of all people, should be the first result of Miss Prince’s request to General ---- at Canterbury to have some of us to nurse. When I realized what neighbourhood it was that I was to be brought to--when I heard that you were near neighbours, I had almost given it up at the last moment!” “We should have been sorry for that.” There is a measured reassuring kindness in her words; but he feels suddenly chilled. It must strike her own ears as too measured; for she adds-- “We should have liked to have had you ourselves; my uncle has said so repeatedly; but we have no appliances! We could not have made you nearly so comfortable as you are here!” His eyes, large with leanness, roll round the spacious airiness of the apartment. “I am in the lap of luxury!” he says; but though there is gratitude in his tone, enthusiasm is absent. After that they are silent for a little space. He must be talking too much. She has been enjoined not to tire him, and _if she sends up his temperature, she will not be allowed to come again_! The first two are confessed apprehensions walking boldly up the front stairs of her mind. The third, on shoeless feet, is creeping up the back! To him, it appears that her last retirement to her chair has left her more distant than at first, and he marvels at the subtlety of his own ruse to bring her back to the bedside. “Would you mind telling me the name of the flowers you are wearing?” “Wood anemones.” “Do they smell good?” “I do not think they have any scent.” There is a moment’s struggle between the maiden and the nurse in her; and then the nurse prevails. “Would you like to try?” she asks, with her first smile--first epoch-making curving into dimples of her grave mouth. She is beside him once again, and gives the blossoms into his fever-wasted hand. He holds them gratefully to his nostrils; and it is, of course, by accident that they touch his lips too. “Not smell! Why, they have the whole blessed spring crammed into them!” Again she smiles--her slow, rich smile--not claiming her posy--Rupert’s posy--back; but just standing by him, enjoying his enjoyment. Not, however, for long. The door opens with a fidgetingly careful turning of the handle, and a needlessly cautious foot crosses the carpet. Féodorovna, a bovril-bearing tray in her hand, stands between them. “You are quite worn out!” she says, in a voice of mixed condolence and counsel. “Miss Carew shall not stay a moment longer! She shall go at once!” The tone implies that Lavinia has shamelessly outstayed her welcome, and her cheek burns for a moment, then resumes its cool pink. Féodorovna means no offence. It is only her way of showing what an adept she is in her new profession. The speech’s effect upon the patient is a much stronger one.