‘It seems absurd,’ says Crosby suddenly, ‘that a child like that should be a prey to rheumatism? Are you sure the doctors have told you all the truth?’
‘I think so.’
‘But are they reliable authorities?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ says Susan, sighing. ‘But’—gently—‘don’t let me trouble you with our sorrows; tell me of yourself. Your sister is coming, you say.’
‘For my birthday. Yes, next month.’
‘Your birthday?’
‘I told you, didn’t I? It will be in a few days now.’
‘A few days!’ Susan’s voice is low, as usual, but primed with a curiosity that she has much difficulty in suppressing.
‘The third of August. It always makes me feel like Ah Sin, Bret Harte’s Chinee—soft, you know. Katherine is coming for the great occasion. That’s my sister’s name, Katherine. You will like her, I think.’
‘Is she like you?’ asks Susan.