"Well," remarked Miss Clifford, "you're a very different sort from the young Frenchwoman the doctor had here before you came—all paint and powder, busy making herself up whenever she thought you weren't looking, always ready for a flirtation." She made a grimace. "Not that she got very far with the doctor, I may tell you," she added, then nodding good-bye, joined her brother in the car.
Esther went into the salon and straightened the disarranged pile of magazines. Then going to the window she peered through the net curtain at the two occupants of the Rolls Royce. The old man was leaning back with his eyes shut and his haggard face sunken into lines of weariness; his sister was adjusting the rug more comfortably about him, watching him with troubled eyes. What a good sort she was! Esther liked her downright honesty and warm-heartedness; she thought she had never met anyone of that age so utterly guileless. How did she get on with her temperamental sister-in-law? What did she think of her really?
She heard the door of the consulting-room open, the other one, leading to the hall.
"You think—but are you sure?"
It was Lady Clifford who put this question in a voice which, though low-pitched, had a note of sharp insistence.
"Sure! Can one be absolutely sure of anything?"
All the geniality was gone from the doctor's voice; he sounded cold, as though wearied by a tiresome topic.
"Yes, but you know what my nerves are like! Can't you say something more?"
A short silence. Then:
"You say he had his milk regularly—the pint and a half a day?"