"Tell me a little about yourselves. Keeping up bravely is all right: but just once in a way one has to give in. Don't you think so? Wouldn't a good cry make you feel better?"
"O no—Sissie—"
"Would it distress her? But she doesn't seem to notice us. Perhaps she is resting. Now I am going to tell you who I am. My name is Nurse Valentine, and my business in life is to take care of sick people. So I have come to the right part of the train, haven't I? And my home is close to Reading. We can go through London together, if you like. Do you think you can trust me? I'm such a stranger."
"I don't feel as if you were a stranger . . . I did dread London!"
"You need not now. I'll manage for you both. What is your name?"
Lettice responded to questioning, and various particulars oozed out about herself, about Cecilia's illness, about the sorrow of leaving Felix, about the unknown Dr. Bryant. She did not definitely tell what she knew of Cecilia's real state: but the weight of foreboding which underlay all else was easily detected by Nurse Valentine's observant eyes, and its cause was soon conjectured.
The relief of free speech was great. Lettice's brow lost some of its strain, her eyes some of their forlornness: and Nurse Valentine's hand coming between hers was held tightly.
"I wish I had you for a friend," she murmured. "There's nobody to go to."
"There's always ONE, child," in hushed tones.
"Is there? But Sissie is too ill. I must not trouble her. And she never likes people to cry. And Felix—" Lettice had to set her teeth rigidly again. "And—and—I'm so—stupid."