"If you do," he said, "you won't go back to just her—you'll go back to the whole miserable muddle you've got away from. You'll go back to your other aunts and to your father. Besides, how do you know who put that advertisement in? Think carefully. Is the advertisement like her?"
"It's like her to be anxious and kind," said she.
"I mean, is she the sort of woman to advertise that she's ill? To advertise your pet name—and her own name—so that every one who knows you both and sees the advertisement will know that you are being advertised for? Is that like her?" He ended, astonished at his own penetration.
"No," she said, slowly, "it isn't. And it isn't like her to say she's ill. She never complains."
"She wouldn't use her illness as a lever to move events to her liking?"
"Never!" she said, almost indignantly.
"Then I think that this advertisement is some one else's. Where does she live."
"Hyde Park Square."
"Let us telegraph her, and not go to Warwick."