“What is the matter, my dear?”
“Oh, nothing,” said she cunningly.
“Uncle, dear,” said she presently, “when do we go to Herne Bay?”
Now, Dr. Philip had given that up. He had got the servants at Kent Villa on his side, and he felt safer here than in any strange place: so he said, “I don't know: that all depends. There is plenty of time.”
“No, uncle,” said Rosa gravely. “I wish to leave this house. I can hardly breathe in it.”
“What! your native air?”
“Mystery is not my native air; and this house is full of mystery. Voices whisper at my door, and the people don't come in. The maids cast strange looks at me, and hurry away. I scolded that pert girl Jane, and she answered me as meek as Moses. I catch you looking at me, with love, and something else. What is that something—? It is Pity: that is what it is. Do you think, because I am called a simpleton, that I have no eyes, nor ears, nor sense? What is this secret which you are all hiding from one person, and that is me? Ah! Christopher has not written these five weeks. Tell me the truth, for I will know it,” and she started up in wild excitement.
Then Dr. Philip saw the hour was come.
He said, “My poor girl, you have read us right. I am anxious about Christopher, and all the servants know it.”
“Anxious, and not tell ME; his wife; the woman whose life is bound up in his.”