'Allowing me! Really I do not mean to ask her. I choose to do it, thank you, and I will speak to the servant myself.'
It was now Miss Gwynne's turn to grow very red, as, with haughty port, she swept past Rowland, leaving him muttering to himself.
'What a pity that one so noble should be so determined and absolute. Let her go, however. Nobody shall say that I lent a hand to her remaining here. In the first place she runs the risk of infection, in the second every one else thinks she degrades herself by coming here as she does. Still, her desire to take care of the girl is a fine, natural trait of character. I must just go and look over the Guardian. A curacy in England I am resolved to get, away from all temptation. Yet I hate answering advertisements, or advertising. If my aunt's friends would only interest themselves in procuring me a London curacy, I think I should like to work there. That would be labouring in the vineyard, with a positive certainty of reaping some of the fruits.'
The soliloquy was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Prothero, dressed for her walk.
'Mother, you ought not to let Miss Gwynne stay.'
'I! my dear Rowland! Do you think she would mind what I say to her?'
Miss Gwynne entered.
'I have sent off the servant, and now let me go to the girl.'
This was said with the decision of an empress, and with equal grandeur and dignity was the bow made with which she honoured Rowland as she made her exit, followed meekly by Mrs Prothero.
A short time afterwards she was alone by the bedside of the sick girl. Every comfort had been provided for her by Mrs Prothero, and Miss Gwynne had little to do but to administer medicines and nourishment.