There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils.
"You have been sitting up with me," I said.
"Of course," he answered patting my shoulder. "Of course I have. What
did you think I would be doing?"
"What was the matter with me?" I asked.
"Nothing much," he said lightly, "a touch of the sun, and a great deal of
overwork in behalf of your friends. Now keep still, or I will be getting
peppered."
I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my mind. Then I
said:--
"I had yellow fever."
He started.
"It is no use to lie to you," he replied; "you're too shrewd."
I was silent again for a while.
"Nick," I said, "you had no right to stay here. You have--other
responsibilities now."
He laughed. It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, and
I felt the better for hearing it.
"If you begin to preach, parson, I'll go; I vow I'll have no more
sermonizing. Davy," he cried, "isn't she just the dearest, sweetest,
most beautiful person in the world?"
"Where is she?" I asked, temporizing. Nick was not a subtle person, and
I was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette.
"I hope she is not here."
"We made her go to Les Iles," said he.
"And you risked your life and stayed here without her?" I said.
"As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn't come well from you.
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