The Portrait

I went back to the flat, and a servant met me in the hall with a
message that mademoiselle was now quite recovered, and would like to
see me in her boudoir. I hurried to her. A fire was burning on the
hearth, and before this were two lounge chairs. Rosa occupied one, and
she motioned me to the other. Attired in a peignoir of pure white, and
still a little languorous after the attack, she looked the enchanting
perfection of beauty and grace. But in her eyes, which were unduly
bright, there shone an apprehension, the expectancy of the unknown.

"I am better," she said, with a faint smile. "Feel my pulse."

I held her wrist and took out my watch, but I forgot to count, and I
forgot to note the seconds. I was gazing at her. It seemed absurd to
contemplate the possibility of ever being able to call her my own.

"Am I not better?"

"Yes, yes," I said; "the pulse is--the pulse is--you are much better."

Then I pushed my chair a little further from the fire, and recollected
that there were several things to be said and done.

"I expected the attack would pass very quickly," I said.

"Then you know what I have been suffering from," she said, turning her
chair rapidly half-round towards me.

"I do," I answered, with emphasis.

"What is it?"

I was silent.

"Well," she said, "tell me what it is." She laughed, but her voice was
low and anxious.