It was true that Mrs. Sylvestre's fair face had lost all trace of its always delicate color, and that her hands trembled as she drew off her gloves. "I began--suddenly--to feel so cold," she said, "that I thought it better to come back." Mrs. Merriam rose anxiously. "I hope it is not malaria, after all," she said. "I shall begin to think the place is as bad as Rome. You must have some hot wine." "Send it upstairs, if you please," said Agnes. "I am going to my room; there is a large fire there." And she went out as suddenly as she had appeared. "I really believe she does not wish me to follow her," said Mrs. Merriam to herself. "_Is_ this malaria?" And having pondered upon this question, while she gave orders that the wine should be heated, she returned to her book after doing it, with the decision, "No, it is not." Agnes drank very little of the wine when it was brought. She sat by the fire in her room and did not regain her color. The cold which had struck her had struck very deep; she felt as if she could not soon get warm again. Her eyes had a stern look as they rested on the fire; her delicate mouth was set into a curve of hopeless, bitter scorn; the quiet which settled upon her was even a little terrible, in some mysterious way. She heard a ring at the door-bell, but did not move, though she knew a caller was allowed to go to Mrs. Merriam. She was not in a mood to see callers; she could see nobody; she wished to be left alone; but, in about half an hour, a servant came into her room. "Mr. Arbuthnot is downstairs, and Mrs. Merriam wishes to know if Mrs. Sylvestre is better." Mrs. Sylvestre hesitated a second before she replied. "Say to Mrs. Merriam that I am better, and will join her." She was as white as ever when she rose, even a shade whiter, and she felt like marble, though she no longer trembled. "I will go down," she said, mechanically. "Yes, I will go down." What she meant to say or do when she entered the room below perhaps she had not clearly decided herself. As she came in, and Arbuthnot rose to receive her, he felt a startled thrill of apprehension and surprise. "I am afraid you are not really better," he said. "Perhaps I should not have asked to be allowed to see you." He had suddenly an absurd feeling that there was such distance between them--that something inexplicable had set them so far apart--that it might almost be necessary to raise his voice to make her hear him. "Thank you," she replied. "I was not really ill," and passed the chair he offered her, as if not seeing it, taking another one which placed the table between them.