John Derringham--strong and handsome, with his prestige and his
brilliant faculties--was a conquest worth parading chained to her
chariot wheels. But John Derringham, feeble, unable to walk, his ankle
in splints and plaster of Paris, and still suffering from headaches
whenever the light was strong, was simply a weariness to her--nothing
more nor less.
So that, until he should be restored to his usual captivating vigor, it
was much better for her pleasure to leave him to his complete recovery
alone, now that she had got him securely in her keeping.
Arabella could ask her mother down and keep house and see that he had
everything in the world that he wanted--and there were the devoted
nurses. And, in short, her doctor had said she must have her usual cure,
and that was the end of the matter!
She had only made him the most fleeting visits during the week. He had
really been ill after the fever caused by the champagne. And she had
been exquisitely gentle and not too demonstrative. She had calculated
the possibility of his backing out under the plea of his health, so she
determined not to give him a chance to have the slightest excuse by
overtiring him.
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