“I think a little change would do you and Nessie good before the winter; and I should like to show the said bridge to Joan. I have a fancy that it might recall something more of her early days than she can remember now.”
“Has Joan been asking—”
“No, dear. I have evolved the idea entirely out of my own inner consciousness.”
“It seems to me rather absurd. Of course if you mean to do it, we shall do it, though I would rather take a trip into Scotland. But, anyhow, Nessie and I will not walk over the bridge; and if I could have my way, you would not either.”
“You and Nessie shall only stand and look on at our perilous feat.”
“It is all very well to laugh, but bridges do break down sometimes,” retorted Dulcibel, with the least touch of tartness. “What makes you think Nessie unwell?”
“I don’t; I only think her pale.”
“She never is anything else. And she has had no walk to-day. Why don’t you go out, Nessie?”
“Joan promised to go out with me, mother. I would rather wait for Joan.”
The very voice was colorless and languid, like the face and figure. Dulcibel sat looking at Nessie. Then the door opened to admit as complete a contrast as could well be conceived.