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.
No one could have better played the part of devoted, understanding friend who by excess of love had been betrayed into one lapse of passionate outburst, and now wished only to soothe and comfort.
"She is a good sort," John Derringham thought, after her first visit.
"She will let me down easy in any case," and the ceasing of his anxiety about his financial position comforted him greatly.
The next time she came and sat by his bed, a vision of fresh summer laces and chiffons, he determined to make the position clear to her.
She always bent and kissed him with airy grace, then sat down at a discreet distance.

She felt he was not overanxious to caress her, and preferred that the rendering of this impossible should come from her side.

Indeed, unless kisses were necessary to gain an end, she did not care for them herself--stupid, contemptible things, she thought them! John Derringham would have touched the hearts of most women as he lay there, but Cecilia Cricklander had not this tiresome appendage, only the business brain and unemotional sensibilities of her grandfather the pork butcher.