Mrs. Witherby rose importantly and went to meet Howard, who came in swiftly, looking about him in apprehension.
“My dear Mr. Howard,” she said, emotionally, taking his hand in both hers, “this is terribly sad for you.”
“How is she?” he queried, in a sick-room whisper. She patted his hand.
“You must prepare yourself—we must all prepare ourselves. My dear, sensitive, tender-hearted Corinne is beside herself.”
Corinne, feeling better now that her mother had discontinued her theories and prophecies, said cheerfully:
“We don’t know anything. We haven’t seen anybody yet. We’ve only just come. We hope it’s all right.”
Mrs. Witherby was annoyed.
“Corinne! how you interrupt! Oh, I fear it is very serious, Mr. Howard. The doctor is still with her. But of course, we hope....” She broke off and murmured sentimentally: “Ah well, we always hope—we always hope.”
Howard’s tone reflected hers.
“Yes, indeed. I can’t understand it. Rosamond has always been the embodiment of health. For her to be struck down suddenly in this way....”