"Drink it up, there's a good child."
She drank. A long breath.
"Now the rest." She was obedient.
"Now shut your eyes and don't bother. When you're better we'll talk."
Silence—save for the fierce scratching of a pen.
"I'm better," announced Lady St. Craye as the pen paused for the folding of the third letter.
The short skirted woman came and sat on the edge of the divan, very upright.
"Well then. You oughtn't to be out, you poor little thing."
The words brought the tears to the eyes of one weak with the self-pitying weakness of convalescence.
"I wanted—"