"I can't see any difficulty."
"I dare say it would be easy enough for you. It isn't for me. And Patricia would hate to be pitied."
"But you needn't pity her—exactly. I wish she would let me go."
"I'm sure I wish you could—instead of me."
At the hour named, Magda reached the Manor, and was shown into the breakfast-room where, as she remembered, she had been taken on a certain day when wild to see her then idol. Patricia had put her off, lightly and indifferently, to her dire distress. That day seemed very long ago; and Patricia was her idol no longer. Enthusiasm, lacking food, had died a natural death.
A maid came to take her upstairs, and she went, feeling each moment more awkward and embarrassed, more uncertain how to comport herself. She had not yet acquired the gracious gift of self-forgetfulness.
Outside the door she was met by a pleasant-faced woman in nursing dress, who said in a low tone—
"Please do not let Miss Vincent excite herself. She wants cheering up."
They went in together; and at first, in the contrast of lowered blinds and semi-darkness, after brilliant sunshine, Magda could see nothing. Guided by the nurse, she stumbled towards a dim figure in an armchair, wondering whether to offer a kiss. A hand held out settled the question.
"Sit down, please," Patricia said. "Nurse, you can leave us for a talk."