“Dear Madame de Saint-Prix, what is the matter? Your letter frightened me.”
The Countess dropped into the arm-chair which Arnica pushed towards her.
“Oh, Madame Fleurissoire!... Oh! mayn’t I call you Arnica?... this trouble—it is yours as well as mine—will draw us together. Oh! if you only knew!...”
“Speak! Speak! don’t leave me in suspense!”
“I’ve only just heard it myself. I’ll tell you directly, but mind, it must be a secret between you and me.”
“I have never betrayed anyone’s confidence,” said Arnica, plaintively—not that anyone had ever confided in her.
“You’ll not believe it.”
“Yes, yes,” wailed Arnica.
“Ah!” wailed the Countess. “Oh, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of ... anything ... it doesn’t matter what.... I feel as if I were fainting.”
“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?”