She took one to please him but she did not seem inclined to eat. She was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking pale and listless. There were dark shadows under her eyes and a sad expression about her mouth; one would scarcely have known her again for the brilliant beauty who had carried all before her when she sang in London drawing-rooms not three months earlier.
Her father looked at her with sympathetic attention.
"You want cockering up," he said, "and coddling and waiting on. When once we get out of this darned old country, you shall see something different, my girl! I've got money enough to do the thing in style when we reach the States. You shall have all you want there, and no mistake!"
"Thank you, father," said the girl, with a listless smile.
"I've had a long walk to-day," Westwood said, after a pause, "and I've been into what you would call danger, my girl. Ah, that rouses you up a bit, doesn't it? I've been to Russell Square."
"To Russell Square." Cynthia's face turned crimson at once. "Oh, father, did you see—did you hear——"
"Did I hear of Mr. Lepel? That's what I went for, my beauty! In spite of your quarrel, I thought you'd maybe like to hear how he was getting on. I talked to the gardener, a bit; Mr. Lepel's been ill again, you know."
"A relapse?" said Cynthia quickly.
"Yes, a relapse. They've had a hospital-nurse for him, I hear. He's not raving now, they say, but very weak and stupid-like."
"Have none of his friends come to nurse him?" said Cynthia.