"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"
"Yes, I—I saw her this morning."
"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.
He frowned. "No. Cancer."
"How—horrid!"
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? Your looks are a bit on the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."
She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of handkerchief. "It is rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't it? Well—what is it? Is it Brigit?"
Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully concealed thin place on his crown.
"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald—give me the cat, will you?—she dislikes you."