Nigel heard both without heeding. "What would they say at home?" pressed now as a question of importance, though it had not seemed important when he was with Ethel. Then he had no need to ring, for Daisy flung the door open, and, as the French would say, "precipitated herself" upon him.
"Nigel! O Nigel, I knew it was you! You dearest of old fellows! It's delicious to have you back! But why didn't you come straight from the station? What have you been doing all this time? Father has gone to bed, and mother and Anice are in such a way!" The last few words were whispered.
"Did they mind?" asked Nigel. "Why, Daisy, you are a young lady!"—as he kissed the fresh round cheek.
"Don't! I hate to be called a 'young lady.' Nigel; come in—do! What makes you stand and dream? You dear old fellow! It's awfully jolly to see you again. Oh come along—make haste! Fancy waiting to take off your coat after a whole long year away! I was watching at the staircase window, and I saw you in the garden; but nobody else knows."
She pulled him across the hall and into the drawing-room, bursting open the door with a crash of sound which would have seriously disturbed Mr. Browning had he been present.
"Daisy! Daisy!" expostulated Fulvia.
"It's Nigel!" cried Daisy.
"At last!" murmured Anice.
Nigel's first move was to his mother's side. She had risen with a startled look on his entrance, her large eyes wide-open; but the response to his greeting was scarcely what might have been expected. His arms were round her, while her arms hung limply against the velvet dress, and the cheek which she offered to him was cold and white.
"Mother, you are not well!" he exclaimed when—the short round of brotherly kisses over—he came to her again.