“Sit with me?” he asked, tilting his head toward the chair. She hesitated, so he added, “I’ve had only myself for company for the better part of two days.” She still looked uncertain, so he smiled wryly and said, “I find myself somewhat dull, I’m afraid.”

“Only somewhat?” she replied, probably before she remembered she was trying not to enter into a conversation.

“I’m desperate, Honoria,” he told her.

She sighed, but she had a wistful smile as she did so, and she walked into the room. She left the door to the hallway open; now that he was not at death’s door, there were certain proprieties that must be obeyed. “I hate that word,” she said.

“ ‘Desperate’?” he guessed. “You find it overused?”

“No,” she sighed, sitting down in the chair by his bed. “Too frequently apt. It’s a terrible feeling.”

He nodded, although in truth, he didn’t think he understood desperation. Loneliness, certainly, but not desperation.

She sat quietly at his side, her hands folded in her lap. There was a long silence, not quite awkward, but not comfortable, either, and then she said rather suddenly, “The broth is beef.”

He looked down at the small porcelain tureen on his tray, still covered by a lid.

“The cook called it boeuf consommé,” she continued, speaking a little faster than she usually did, “but it’s broth, plain and simple. Mrs. Wetherby insists that its curative powers are beyond compare.”

“I don’t suppose I have anything other than broth,” he said dolefully, looking down at his sparse tray.

“Dry toast,” Honoria said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

He felt his head hang forward another inch. What he wouldn’t give for a slice of Flindle’s chocolate cake. Or a creamed apple tart. Or a shortbread biscuit, or a Chelsea bun, or bloody well anything that contained a great deal of sugar.

“It smells quite nice,” Honoria said. “The broth.”

It did smell quite nice, but not as nice as chocolate would.

He sighed and took a spoonful, blowing on it before taking a taste. “It’s good,” he said.

“Really?” She looked doubtful.

He nodded and ate some more. Or rather, drank some more. Did one eat soup or drink it? And more to the point, could he get some cheese to melt on top of it? “What did you have for supper?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

He ate-drank another spoonful. “Probably not.” Then he couldn’t help himself. “Was there ham?”

She didn’t say anything.

“There was,” he said accusingly. He looked down at the last dregs of his soup. He supposed he could use the dry toast to soak it up. He hadn’t left enough liquid, though, and after two bites, his toast really was dry.