"Very well. I'll give you some phosphites—and you had better go for a walk. You need air."
The old man bustled away, and Brigit, after a few minutes' reflection, went to her mother's room.
"I am going to town, mother," she began, without preamble, "and in a day or so I shall join Tommy at Margate. Dr. Long says I had better go, but—I have some things to see to first."
Lady Kingsmead, who was blackening her eyebrows before her glass, turned, one eye made up, the other very undressed-looking in its natural condition.
"But—you'll come back, Brigit? You aren't angry any more?"
"I—I don't know, mother. I—am so tired, I can't think."
Lady Kingsmead took up a letter that lay beside her and handed it to her daughter. "Read this—dear," she said rather humbly. And Brigit read:
"Dear Tony," it ran, in a curious irregular, downward-trending hand, "I've been awfully bad again, or I should have written before. I was at the Joyselles' yesterday, and they told me that the danger is over. I am so glad, poor old girl. How are you? And how is Brigit? I hope she will believe you when you tell her about that day after I saw her in Tite Street. I told her that you did not believe me and went for me, but she wouldn't listen to me, and I don't blame her. I'm pretty bad. I shan't last long, I think. Heart's getting bad, too. May I come down and see you some time? Joyselle tells me the wedding is to be next month——"
Brigit crushed the letter violently in her hand and threw it down, her face distorted with anger.
"Poor old Gerald," commented her mother absently. After a pause she turned. "Brigit—I give you my sacred word of honour that I did not believe him that day. I never doubted you for a second. But he was so queer—so ill—that I was alarmed, and was trying to comfort him when you came in.