"Oh yes, Daisy informed me." Then the remainder of Daisy's report rushed into Fulvia's mind, and Nigel glanced in surprise at her flushed face. It was very evident to Fulvia that his own recollections of what he had said brought no self-conscious feelings. "Just after you first came home," Fulvia added, with an effort. Nigel paused for a moment outside the study door. "Yes; I thought the girls wanted a hint. You mustn't let them put upon you too much. It is not right." "What isn't?" "Their making use of you upon all occasions to save themselves trouble. Anice is desperately lazy, and Daisy follows in her wake. You must not let them put upon you." "I don't see why. I like doing things for people." "Yes, that is your kindness. But it is not necessary or right. If you were their own sister—" "I thought you called me so just now." "That is just it. We call you so, but in reality you are Fulvia Rolfe, the heiress, not even a distant relative of ours." "I don't see what difference the heiress-ship makes. I owe more to madre and padre and all of you, than the biggest fortune in England could ever repay. And nobody could call my few thousands a fortune. Just, enough to be comfortable on. Yes; please open the door." "Fulvia, my dear! This is unexpected," Mr. Browning said, rising with his melancholy air and habitual sigh. "I was told that you could not come downstairs for two or three days yet. I am glad to see you looking so well." Mr. Browning was in the way of counting everybody well except himself. Like Anice, he desired always to have a monopoly of ill-health. Fulvia's colour might, however, have deceived keener eyes than his. "Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about yourself. Yes, there; that is a comfortable chair. I am only pretty well—only so-so—not at all up to the mark. You wished to speak to me? Yes, certainly, anything except business. I am not equal to business yet; sometimes I doubt if I ever shall be again. Don't go, Nigel." "I will come again presently," Nigel began. But Mr. Browning repeated, "No, don't go, pray don't go!" And Fulvia added, "Yes, please stay. I have nothing to say which you may not hear." Rather reluctantly Nigel remained, leaning against the mantelpiece, not far from where Fulvia sat. She did not look her best this morning. Ill-health was unbecoming to Fulvia, as indeed it is to most people. Her hair was not so well-dressed as usual, being a little awry; her eyes were heavy; her complexion was flushed in patches. Nigel compared her with a mental picture of Ethel—fresh dainty, delicately pale, sunny-eyed—and he thought—but one hardly needs to say what he thought. Fulvia, was dear to him as the adopted sister of his whole life; but she was not Ethel; she could not be Ethel.