"Why do you walk about so?" I asked.
"I don't know. Victor, I feel very strange. I hope nothing is going
to happen. I never felt quite like this before;" and she broke her
hand loose from me and passed on.
I sprang up and followed her, and put my arm round her.
"Going to happen, dearest! What do you mean? Do you feel ill?"
I looked at her. She was very white, and her lips were parted and
pale. There was a distressed and strangely absent look upon her face
which startled me, though I had no clue to its significance.
"Yes, very ill," she answered, her eyes wandering away from my
anxious ones looking down at her, as we stood for a moment together.
Then she gently pushed away my arm and continued her walk.
"You know my heart always does beat and hurt if I am very happy, or
very excited, or any thing, but it's never been quite so bad as this
before." And then, catching the distress upon my face, she added, "I
daresay this is nothing. It will go off. I think it is only
hysterical. Don't look so unhappy!" And a faint smile swept over her
pallid face.
She made her way to the sideboard and drank some water standing
there. Then she continued to move slowly round the room, both hands
pressed beneath her left breast, and her delicate eyebrows
contracted into one dark line across her colourless face.
"I overworked myself so tremendously just lately," she said, after a
minute, "after--well, after I came to you in Paris.
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