He shook it off--not angrily: just brushing it away, as he might have brushed away the ash of his cigar or a splash of mud in the street.
"What does this fainting fit mean ?" she asked timidly.

"Is Ovid going to be ill ?" "Seriously ill--unless you do the right thing with him, and do it at once." He walked away.

She followed him, humbly and yet resolutely.
"Tell me, if you please," she said, "what we are to do." He looked back over his shoulder.

"Send him away." She returned, and knelt down by Ovid--still slowly reviving.

With a fond and gentle hand, she wiped the moisture from his forehead.
"Just as we were beginning to understand each other!" she said to herself, with a sad little sigh..