Suddenly a vigorous, alert look replaced Sophy's passive expression. She stood up, facing the perturbed physician.
"What must we do?" she asked. "I am ready to do anything to save him. Anything that I may do with self-respect—anything that will not put my boy in danger. Explain to me. Whatever it is, I will do it—if it is in my power."
She shone white and vivid against the grey, rain-strung frame of the hall window. She dazzled there in the dark, grim hall, flashing something free and Amazonian into the staid discreetness of the sober, conventional house. Bellamy watched her, without being quite able to translate into clear thought the impression that she produced on him at that moment.
She put it into words for him herself: "I mean that I will fight for him like a comrade—not like a submissive wife—a slave," she said.
She stood for a moment looking down at her shoe-tip which she moved slightly to and fro. Then she said abruptly:
"How is my boy? Does his paleness mean that he is not well really—or is it only a passing thing?"
"No, no," he hastened to reassure her. "The boy feels the confinement of the house, of course, but a week of sunny weather would have him right as a trivet."
"And if it keeps on raining?"
"I hardly think it will. We are nearly in July now. Rainy Junes are frequent in England, you know; but July is apt to show some fine weather."
"But in case it does not?" she persisted.