The darkness of the day was congenial to her; sunshine would have seemed an insult. She reached the village, with its little straight street and modern red-brick inn, and passing through it turned to the left towards the station. It was only three, and Joyselle could not arrive for two hours; yet she felt that she was going towards him.
A motor rushed past her, covering her with dust and causing her to clench her hands in anger. "Beastly thing!" she said aloud.
Then out of the cloud of dust emerged—Joyselle, on foot, his violin-case in his hand.
"You!"
"Yes. I—couldn't wait, so I cut an engagement and took the 1.45, Brigit—how is he?"
He was flushed with the effort of rapid walking in a long coat and his hat was on one side. He was smoking, and forgot to ask her leave to continue. Small things were swept from his mind by his evident anxiety.
"He is—very bad. But—oh, it was good of you to bring your violin!"
"Of course I did. If anything on earth can quiet him, that will. What is the trouble now that the throat is better?"
"I don't know. He thinks and thinks, and can't sleep, and the fever will not go. In a grown person I suppose they'd call it brain-fever."
"Poor little boy."