Her voice was coaxing and sweet.  He partly withdrew himself from her, however.

“At least, you can tell my mother,” he said, insisting.  “Of course, she suspects it all.”

“Oh, but, dear Oliver!”—­she brought her face nearer to his, and he saw the tears in her eyes—­“one’s own mother ought to know first of all.  Mamma would be so hurt—­she would never forgive me.  Let me pay this horrid visit—­and then go home and tell my people—­if you really, really wish it.  Afterward of course, I shall come back to you—­and Cousin Lucy shall know—­and at Christmas—­everybody.”

“What visit?  You are going to Eastham?—­to the Tresham’s?” It was a cry of incredulous pain.

“How can I get out of it, dear Oliver?  Evelyn has been so ill!—­and she’s been depending on me—­and I owe her so much.  You know how good she was to me in the Season.”

He lifted himself again on his cushions, surveying her ironically—­his eyes sunken and weak—­his aspect ghastly.

“Well, how long do you mean to stay?  Is Lord Philip going to be there?”

“What do I care whether he is or not!”

“You said you were longing to know him.”

“That was before you were ill.”

“I don’t see any logic in that remark.”  He lay looking at her.  Then suddenly he put out an arm, pulled her down to him feebly, and kissed her.  But the movement hurt him.  He turned away with some broken words—­or, rather, moans—­stifled against his pillows.

“Dear, do lie still.  Shall I read to you?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t stay with me.  I shall be better after dinner.”

She rose obediently, touched him caressingly with her hand, drew a light shawl over him, and stole away.

* * * * *

When she reached her own room she stood a moment, frowning and absorbed; beside the open window.  Then some one knocked at her door.  It was her maid, who came in carrying a large light box.

Alicia flew toward her.

“From Cosette!  Heavens!  Oh, Benson, quick!  Put it down.  I’ll help you.”

The maid obeyed, and ran to the dressing-table for scissors.  Cords and tapes were soon cut in the hurry of unpacking, and from the crackling tissue-paper there emerged an evening gown of some fresh snowy stuff, delicately painted and embroidered, which drew from the maid little shrieks of admiration.

Alicia looked at it more critically.

“The lace is not good enough,” she said, twisting her lip, “and I shall make her give me some more embroidery than that on the bodice—­for the money—­I can tell her!  However, it is pretty—­much prettier, isn’t it, Benson, than that gown of Lady Evelyn’s I took it from?  She’ll be jealous!” The girl laughed triumphantly.  “Well, now, look here, Benson, we’re going on Saturday, and I want to look through my gowns.  Get them out, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can send home.”