‘Where?’
‘At “la badia di Recoara”. It is what in English we call a watering-place, on the mountains to the north, where the Vicentini do go in summer for “fraicheur”, but they have all returned in the last two days for fear of the infection.’
‘I’ll go and make inquiries’ said Guy, rising in haste. Returning in a quarter of an hour, he said,—‘It is true. It can be no other than poor Philip. I have seen his doctor, an Italian, who, when he saw our name written, said it was the same. He calls it “una febbre molto grave”.’
‘Very heavy! Did he only know the name in writing?’
‘Only from seeing it on his passport. He has been unable to give any directions.’
‘How dreadfully ill he must be! And alone! What shall we do? You won’t think of leaving me behind you, whatever you do?’ exclaimed Amabel, imploringly.
‘It is at no great distance, and—’
‘O, don’t say that. Only take me with you. I will try to bear it, if you don’t think it right; but it will be very hard.’
Her eyes were full of tears, but she struggled to repress them, and was silent in suspense as she saw him considering.
‘My poor Amy!’ said he, presently; ‘I believe the anxiety would be worse for you if I were to leave you here.’