Janet gave details. The sick-room lay hidden behind the face of the door, mysterious and sacred.
“Mr Edwin thinks you ought to telegraph,” said Mrs Orgreave timidly.
“Do you?” demanded Janet. Her eyes seemed to pierce him. Why did she gaze at him with such particularity, as though he possessed a special interest in Hilda?
“Well—” he muttered. “You might just wire how things are, and leave it to her to come as she thinks fit.”
“Just so,” said Mr Orgreave quickly, as if Edwin had expressed his own thought.
“But the telegram couldn’t be delivered to-night,” Janet objected. “It’s nearly half-past seven now.”
It was true. Yet Edwin was more than ever conscious of a keen desire to telegraph at once.
“But it would be delivered first thing in the morning,” he said. “So that she’d have more time to make arrangements if she wanted to.”
“Well, if you think like that,” Janet acquiesced.
The visage of Mrs Orgreave lightened.