She sprang to the glass, smoothed her hair—flung a dressing-gown about her shoulders.
Tilda stared when she saw that white face, with the great dusky circles round the eyes.
"O dear, m'm, how you do look!" she faltered. "Are you ill?"
"No. I felt rather nervous. It's nothing," Sophy said hurriedly. "What o'clock is it?"
"Just seven, m'm. Mr. Gaynor sent me to you. I was against it, knowing that you'd been out last night—but now I'm sure I'm thankful I did come. It's about the Master, m'm. He's very bad, Mr. Gaynor says. He'd like to speak with you, m'm, Mr. Gaynor would. But let me bring you a cup of tea first, m'm—please."
"Yes, bring me some tea. Tell Gaynor I will see him after I have had some tea."
Sophy lay back on the couch. Could it be that Cecil was going to die? She thought: "I am quite honest with myself. I don't try to deceive myself. I hope that he will die. Yes—quickly. But what is curious is that this wish doesn't shock me—that other part of me, that doesn't exactly wish it. I can see that it would be right not to wish it, but I do wish it."
Tilda came back with the tea in a few moments. The strong stimulant brought some colour to Sophy's lips—steadied her. When she had drunk it, she said:
"Now send Gaynor to me."
Gaynor was at the door within two moments. Tilda held it open for him rather grudgingly. She thought that her lady's indisposition was of far graver import than that of Gaynor's master.