"When you are well enough, you shall come down to Kingsford Farm with me. That will be your first outing, I hope."
"It would be delicious," sighed Jean; "but I cannot do it, Barbara."
It was about three o'clock, when a ring at the door and a step on the stair caused Jean's colour to ebb and flow. Dr. Fergusson's previous visit had given her almost as much pain as pleasure. She now looked forward to meet him again with a mingled feeling of dread and delight. Though she had comparatively seen a great deal of him, his impenetrable reserve had always prevented great intimacy between them, and she found herself wondering now, if he was merely obeying his mother's wishes and coming to her entirely from a professional standpoint.
Another cause was making her nervous: she meant to come to a definite understanding about her injured hand.
Barbara, as usual, slipped out of the room, but Dr. Fergusson sat down and talked to her about ordinary things, until Jean began to think that she would not be able to get the information she wanted. At last, he came over to her and inspected her hand, and then with desperate earnestness Jean looked up at him.
"Dr. Fergusson, please tell me the truth. So much depends on it. When shall I be able to paint again?"
He did not answer for a minute; then he said slowly—
"I think your hand will have to have a six months' rest."
Her lips quivered and a blank look of dismay filled her face, but she did not speak, only drew herself up straighter in her chair.
He looked at her.