Meantime Miss Rosey had taken advantage of the absence of her father to visit her patient.  To avoid attracting attention she did not take a light, but groped her way to the lower deck and rapped softly at the door.  It was instantly opened by De Ferrieres.  He had apparently appreciated the few changes she had already made in the room, and had himself cleared away the pallet from which he had risen to make two low seats against the wall.  Two bits of candle placed on the floor illuminated the beams above, the dressing-gown was artistically draped over the solitary chair, and a pile of cushions formed another seat.  With elaborate courtesy he handed Miss Rosey to the chair.  He looked pale and weak, though the gravity of the attack had evidently passed.  Yet he persisted in remaining standing.  “If I sit,” he explained with a gesture, “I shall again disgrace myself by sleeping in Mademoiselle’s presence.  Yes!  I shall sleep—­I shall dream—­and wake to find her gone!”

More embarrassed by his recovery than when he was lying helplessly before her, she said hesitatingly that she was glad he was better, and that she hoped he liked the broth.

“It was manna from heaven, Mademoiselle.  See, I have taken it all—­every precious drop.  What else could I have done for Mademoiselle’s kindness?”

He showed her the empty bowl.  A swift conviction came upon her that the man had been suffering from want of food.  The thought restored her self-possession even while it brought the tears to her eyes.  “I wish you would let me speak to father—­or some one,” she said impulsively, and stopped.

A quick and half insane gleam of terror and suspicion lit up his deep eyes.  “For what, Mademoiselle!  For an accident—­that is nothing—­absolutely nothing, for I am strong and well now—­see!” he said tremblingly.  “Or for a whim—­for a folly you may say, that they will misunderstand.  No, Mademoiselle is good, is wise.  She will say to herself, ’I understand, my friend Monsieur de Ferrieres for the moment has a secret.  He would seem poor, he would take the role of artisan, he would shut himself up in these walls—­perhaps I may guess why, but it is his secret.  I think of it no more.’” He caught her hand in his with a gesture that he would have made one of gallantry, but that in its tremulous intensity became a piteous supplication.

“I have said nothing, and will say nothing, if you wish it,” said Rosey hastily; “but others may find out how you live here.  This is not fit work for you.  You seem to be a—­a gentleman.  You ought to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or in a bank,” she continued timidly, with a vague enumeration of the prevailing degrees of local gentility.