“He said very little, but enough. Oh, Frank, it is very dreadful. He is my father. But all I said to you holds. He, you; that is what hurts so. It was awful telling him, too. But I had to.”
“My darling, why?” he asked. “You should have left it to me.”
Her eye brightened.
“Ah, that was one of the reasons why I didn’t,” she said.
“Oh, Helen! But you look tired, knocked up.”
“That doesn’t much matter,” she said. “Go to see him now, dear. You will find me on the lawn when you have finished. And, remember, it all holds. It was never shaken, not for a moment, even last night. And he came to say good-night to me afterwards; poor, dear father! I have always envied him for his strength till now; but now it is just that which will make him suffer so horribly.”
Frank felt in his coat pocket, and took a note out of it.
“From Lady Sunningdale,” he said. “She is delighted, and is telling everybody how she managed and contrived it all from the beginning.”
Helen took the note.
“Go now, Frank,” she said. “I can think of nothing till this is over.”