She laughed in rather an odd manner.
“From whom do you suppose?” she asked.
“How should I know?” I protested, faintly. “I have not an idea.”
“From the bête noir,” she exclaimed, plucking off one of the yellow blossoms and placing it upon my pillow.
I still looked blankly at her. She laughed.
“Can’t you really guess?” she asked.
I shook my head. I really had no idea.
“From Mr. Deville. He has called nearly every day to ask after you.”
It was surprising enough, but I said very little. I suppose I was not considered strong enough then to hear any news of importance; but several days later, when I was sitting up, Alice looked up from the book she was reading aloud to me and told me something which I know she must have had very hard work to have kept to herself for so long.
“Father is to be made a canon, Kate,” she said, triumphantly. I looked up at her bewildered. I had forgotten all about Lady Naselton’s plans on his behalf. The latter part of this terrible Sunday had haunted me like a nightmare, usurping all my thoughts. There had been little room for other memories.