Her cousin looked at her with a curious expression in his eyes: at another time she would have been surprised to see no anger there at her confession, but now she did not seem to be surprised at anything. Pauly was very ill—perhaps going to die—and Hugh had not cared to see her. Nothing else seemed to matter very much.
“Are you ill, Sydney?” Her cousin spoke to her twice before she heard him.
She put her hands to her head. “I don’t know; my head aches rather.”
“Go and lie down,” said St. Quentin. “You’ve been worrying about that poor little chap at the Vicarage. Lie down till luncheon; then you will feel better.”
She felt dimly that his tone was kind in spite of her disobedience with regard to Hugh. With a sudden impulse she knelt down beside his couch and laid her head upon his hand. “I shall not disobey you again,” she said, “for Hugh—Hugh doesn’t care, I think, to see me now.”
She was on her feet again, and had left the room before he had time to answer her.
St. Quentin gazed after her with a softened look in his tired grey eyes. “Poor little soul!” he muttered.
Dr. Lorry looked in at the Castle as Lady Frederica and Miss Osric were sitting down to luncheon. Sydney had fallen asleep on the sofa in the morning-room, and Miss Osric would not rouse her. The old doctor refused luncheon and went to the library at once. His face was very grave.
“Is the little chap at the Vicarage any worse?” St. Quentin asked him sharply.
“Very little change since yesterday,” the old doctor said. “I have great hopes from young Chichester, and fresh treatment.... These young men, you know, are up in all the latest developments of science.”