“Morris, I’m really worried about poor Bertie. Did I tell you that I heard from her this morning? Frederick Tregaskis is ill—a chill or something—and she doesn’t like to leave him, and yet these convent people are writing to say that Frances is in the infirmary, and giving no details whatever. Simply say she’s very anæmic, and it may be what the doctor calls ‘pernicious.’ Bertie is torn in two.”
Morris, who was relieved at his parent’s altered tone, felt it due to her to reply with sympathetic concern, and even added:
“Couldn’t you go down to the convent yourself, and see about Frances? They’d be sure to let you in, and then you could relieve Mrs. Tregaskis’ mind.”
Nina looked pleased.
“I might do that. But really I don’t know whether their rules and regulations would admit of a surprise visit. It’s possible, too, that they mightn’t quite realize who one was, as it is so long since I went there,” said Nina with gracious humility, making it evident that Morris was not to be alone in his concessions.
But the next day was a Saturday, and as neither of them had ever had the faintest intention of proceeding to the convent, it was in perfect harmony that Morris and his mother motored down to Hurlingham for the afternoon.
On their return, Nina took up a small sheaf of letters in her white-gloved hand.
“Bertie again!” she exclaimed lightly. “What an insatiable letter-writer that dear woman is.”
As she read the letter her face changed with that dramatic suddenness of which Morris considered only himself to be past master.
Contrary to his wont, however, he did not ignore his mother’s only less admirable histrionic effort.