"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this silly sort of talk."
For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.
"Because perhaps you don't know what trouble is," murmured Nancy at last.
"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with strangers—but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish, overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known anguish—the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest, died of typhoid in India,—all alone; and here am I, all alone,—with nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you. Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."
"I was eighteen three months ago."
"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Jenkins. She has a house in Queen's Gate."
"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,—very comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a malade imaginaire. Do you know anything of nursing?"
"Not much, I am afraid."
"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced—and I am going to prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I insist!" There was no gainsaying this old lady.