"Perhaps it isn't true," Nina suggested.
"It must be. That's one thing about those wicked society papers—they're almost always right. Otherwise they wouldn't dare, don't you know. It's that that makes them so objectionable."
Nina left her great-aunt and flew to her own room with barely time to dress. There she found her hostess, already in full dinner regalia, awaiting her.
"I felt I must see you at once, dear," began Lady Bellingdown. "I've such a favor to ask you. You can do something for me now that I shall never forget as long as I live. And I don't know a solitary other woman that could do it."
Nina's suspicions ran at once to Lord Waltheof.
"If it's—" she began—but was checked instantly.
"You could never possibly fancy. It isn't anything you'd think. It's about Caryll Carleigh."
"About Caryll Carleigh?"
"Yes. He's been in Scotland, you know, practically buried, and growing worse—more morose, more heart-sick every day. He's had a fearful knocking down, and I've been worried about him—no end."
"Well?" pressed Nina, groping. She couldn't in the least see what she had—or could have—to do with it all.