In the bed Vicky Fane was propped up against pillows, from where she could look straight across to the windows and out over the trees in the avenue.
She was handsomer than Courtney remembered her, for her face now had life and animation. She turned her head, with difficulty, to greet them; the jaws and neck were still tender and somewhat swollen, though this hardly showed. The tan partly concealed her pallor. She was wearing a lace negligee over her nightgown.
Vicky smiled at them, also with difficulty, showing fine teeth.
"Do come in," she requested. Her voice was faintly husky, "This room's a sight, I'm afraid. But we let the nurse go; I'm perfectly fit. I could play six sets of tennis now and never feel it."
"You know you couldn't," said Ann rather sharply.
Vicky ignored this.
"You're Mr. Courtney, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Fane. I don't like to barge in like this-"
" 'Vicky,' please, And you're not barging in." She gave him her hand, and he took it. "You're a great friend of Frank's, aren't you? He's told me so much about you."
A vast inner happiness seemed to sustain her and glow through her. This, and her will-power. For he could see that she was still very ill, and that she got round this by refusing to admit it.