"Perhaps—perhaps," she said at last, "Hubert did not know."
"Oh, but he did—he did!" said her uncle, whose memory for dates and details was generally at fault. "If not at once, he knew before very long; and he ought never to have spoken to her again when once he knew. As for all that stuff about his not being quiet unless she was in the room—about her being the only person who could manage him when he was delirious, you know—why, that was stuff and nonsense! They ought to have got a strait-waistcoat and strapped him down to the bed; that would surely have kept him as quiet as any Miss Cynthia West!"
The General said the name with infinite scorn.
"Is that what they said—that he was quiet when she was there?" Enid inquired.
"So they said—so they said! I don't see the sense of it myself," replied the General, feeling that he had perhaps said a little too much.
"Then did he send for her?"
"No, my dear; he was unconscious when she came. I believe that his man Jenkins was at the bottom of it all. He went and told her that poor Hubert was ill."
"But I don't quite understand. If Hubert did not send for her, what right had she to come?"
"You may well ask that. What right indeed! An abominable thing, I call it, for Westwood's daughter to go and nurse one of our family! Don't grieve about it, my darling! If Hubert was led astray by her wiles for a little time, you may be sure that he will be ashamed of himself before very long. He has a good heart, and will not let you go; he loves you too sincerely for that, I am quite sure. So you must not fret."
"I don't; I shall not grieve—in that way, uncle," said Enid gravely, but with perfect calm. "You mean that Hubert cares for her, and that she loves him too?"