So on they talked, each interesting the other, till, with a start from each, the door opened. If Mr Barringcourt felt surprised, he had got to that state of perfection when, unless he wished to, he did not show it. Marigold got up from her chair with a dignity it was quite impossible to mistake. “I have come to nurse Timothy. You said he was too ill to be left long, and my aunt is busy.” “That is very kind of you,” he answered simply. “Did you bring the flowers and the cushion?” “Yes, and his breakfast. I think we will look after him altogether now. He has been so neglected, except when you have come.” And then she sat down again. Mr Barringcourt looked at her and bit his lips; and suddenly she got up, with her eyes on the ground, and said very nervously: “Let me stay. If I go away, I shall only go into the Temple grounds. I would rather stay.” She never knew what it was that prompted her to speak so--not till long afterwards. And looking up for the answer, she caught the look of utter surprise in his eyes, that her dress and neatness had not occasioned. He looked at her more closely, then he said quietly: “Yes, you may stay. But this is a very uninteresting hour to the outsider. It is Timothy’s bedtime.” “You see it’s like this,” Timothy now put in for himself, having been long enough out of the conversation. “When I sleep at night I’m more tired than ever after it. When I wake up, all my bones are aching, and all the perspiration is running out of me, and from being all hot and steam, I go quite cold. But when I sleep, and Dr Quack stays awake to look after me, then I waken up all right, as if I really had been asleep, and I’m not all trickling in big drops.” “You see,” said Mr Barringcourt, speaking quietly and looking down at her, “I am a quack, and so I believe in faith cure. I am strong, and Timothy is weak. When he knows my arms are round him, then he feels safe, and therefore happier, so what time I can in the day I spare to him.” And so saying, he sat down in the chair and took the cripple on his knee. And Marigold, being no more than a child in heart, and just past the verge of womanhood in years, thought how nice it would have been if she could have taken the other knee--if--if only they’d been friends. And then she sat up very straight, feeling real annoyance at her own want of dignified emotions. “Would you like a paper?” he asked, drawing a bundle from his pocket. “No, thank you. I don’t understand the art of reading newspapers. It’s a man’s work.” He took her at her word, and passed no more remarks, but was soon lost in the contents. Only, when he wanted the paper turning, she got up and turned it for him. Twice she did it, and twice he thanked her very pleasantly and kindly. And, after a while, he laid the paper down, Timothy still sleeping, and said: “This little boy is very ill.” “I know.” “He won’t last many more weeks, and he won’t be able to get up much longer.” “No.”