Harry was looking rather yellow and dishevelled. He had sat up very late the night before, and the chase for rhymes had been peculiarly fatiguing and ineffectual.
“I don’t feel at all well, either,” he said. “And I don’t think Cousin Millie is well.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Ames composedly.
“I went to see her yesterday and she didn’t attend. She seemed frightfully surprised to hear that father had gone to Harrogate.”
“I suppose Dr. Evans had not told her,” remarked Mrs. Ames. “Please telephone to her after breakfast, Harry, and ask her to dine with us this evening.”
“Yes. How curious women are! One day they seem so glad to see you, another you are no more to them than foam on a broken wave.”
This was one of the fragments of last night.
“On a broken what?” asked Mrs. Ames. The rustling of the turning leaf of the Morning Post had caused her not to hear. There was no sarcastic intention in her inquiry.
“It does not matter,” said Harry.
His mother looked up at him.