Jeannie tapped at the bed-room door, and Phœbe’s voice answered her quite cheerfully.
“I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?”
Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for, evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring. But her own part was made easier for her.
“Yes, he was very grave,” said Jeannie. “Dear Miss Clifford, it is idle for me to say how sorry I am. But it is very grave, indeed.”
Phœbe stood at the window a moment with her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie could see that her hand, which played with the blind-cord, trembled, and at that her courage again failed her, and a sickening helplessness took its place. But almost immediately Phœbe turned round again, and her poor, gray face was quite composed, and her hand firm.
“Please tell me what it is, Miss Avesham,” she said.
Jeannie rose, took both her hands in hers, and looked at her with infinite compassion.
“It is cancer,” she said.
Phoebe drew a long sigh.
“You will think it very singular of me, Miss Avesham,” she said, “but it is almost a relief to hear that. The fear of it, I think, was worse than the knowledge. Can anything be done?”