Hugh went inside, leaving the landing-net with the three fish in it on the steps. In a moment he reappeared again, with the telegram in his hand.
“Open it,” he said. “Tell me.”
What was this wave of inexplicable communication that had reached them both? Whatever it was, it was borne here on the wings of love, the love that turned to them. So there was nothing to be frightened at.
She took it from him, opened it, read it. Then she leaned a little forward toward him, and put her hand on his arm.
“Yes, dear,” she said, “we must go back to Davos—now, I mean. Oh, Hughie, face it. It is very bad; no, not the worst. But she is very ill!”
She handed him the telegram.
“Go and eat something, Hugh,” she said. “I will make all your arrangements. But shall I come with you? Say what you think is best; I will be ready as soon as you. But be sensible, dear. Go and eat while I look out trains. Only, would you rather I came with you or not?”
He took the telegram, read it, saw what it was.
“No,” said he. “But will you stop down here, so that you will be on the spot to make all arrangements?”
“Yes, yes,” said she.