"Yes, indeed. Is Prue upstairs, now?"
"Prue will be in charge till half-past ten; and then I shall take her for the night. If Prue wants me, she will ring."
Bertha went softly into the drawing room; and found Lettice there, heavily asleep, lying flat in a position of profound weariness. The child-like sweetness of her face impressed Bertha as it had impressed Mrs. Valentine. One hand was thrown out unconsciously; and Wallace drew Bertha's attention to the discoloured wrist.
"Nan's doing," he muttered.
"Nan doesn't know the strength of her own muscles. Poor little thing!"
"She's dead beat—hasn't slept for nights."
"Keep her quiet for the present. By-and-by she must go to bed. Our coming in and out doesn't wake her."
"A thunder-clap wouldn't, I believe. But I promised one thing. If Miss Anderson wants her—that's to say, if you tell me Miss Anderson wants her—I must rouse her up."
Bertha was silent; and Wallace did not look up, or ask questions. He had worded his promise carefully, and he now repeated it carefully, relieving his conscience, and shifting responsibility from himself to Bertha. She stood silent, conjecturing how far she might be bound by Wallace's promise. Cecilia did want Lettice, and asked for her incessantly: yet it was better for the two to be apart, at least for a while, and to awaken Lettice now would be absolute cruelty. Bertha could not do it, looking on the wan little face.
"Wallace had no authority to promise for me: and if I do not speak, he need not act," she decided, and moved away.