“He said he should be here at about half-past four,” said Meta. “He is gone to the station to inquire about the trains. Do you know what time the last comes in?”
“At nine forty-five,” said the doctor.
“That is what we were afraid of. It is for Bellairs, my maid. Her mother is very ill, and she is afraid she is not properly nursed. It is about five miles from the Milbury Station, and we thought of letting her go with a day-ticket to see about her. She could go in the morning, after I am up; but I don’t know what is to be done, for she could not get back before I dress for dinner.”
Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially after what had passed.
“It would be quite impossible,” said the doctor. “Even going by the eight o’clock train, and returning by the last, she would only have two hours to spare—short enough measure for a sick mother.”
“Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she may get.”
“Is there no one with her mother now?”
“A son’s wife, who, they think, is not kind. Poor Bellairs was so grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress for once without her?”
“Do you know old Crabbe?” said the doctor.
“The dear old man at Abbotstoke? Oh, yes, of course.”