“What is it?” he inquired, in suitably sharpened accents of apprehension.
Nina contrived to raise a face which had paled perceptibly, an effect which Morris regretfully noted as being beyond his compass.
“Poor little Frances! Bertha writes in the greatest terror and distress. Those convent people have actually telegraphed that she is very ill indeed, and in danger. Something about the Last Sacraments. They don’t say anything about wanting Bertie to go there, and in any case she’s not able to leave Frederick. But Rosamund went down there yesterday.”
Morris felt vaguely resentful. He disliked hearing of anyone else’s grief or anxiety, and he thought his mother’s agitation distinctly overdone.
“I hope she’s better by this time,” he said with reserve.
Nina turned slowly away, her hand pressed to her heart, every symptom of distress emphasized in contrast to Morris’ obvious desire to be rid of the subject.
“This is a heavier blow to me than you can realize, my poor boy,” she murmured in stricken accents. “It has been mother and daughter between Frances and me.”
XXVI
ROSAMUND, sick with anxiety, sat in the hideous little convent parlour, waiting.
Presently the door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland entered creakingly.