“George—I saw him just now in the gardens.”
“Ah, is that George’s version? Poor George—he was in no state to remember what I told him. He had one of his worst attacks this morning, and I packed him off to see the doctor. Do you know if he found him?”
Lily, still lost in conjecture, made no reply, and Mrs. Dorset settled herself indolently in her seat. “He’ll wait to see him; he was horribly frightened about himself. It’s very bad for him to be worried, and whenever anything upsetting happens, it always brings on an attack.”
This time Lily felt sure that a cue was being pressed on her; but it was put forth with such startling suddenness, and with so incredible an air of ignoring what it led up to, that she could only falter out doubtfully: “Anything upsetting?”
“Yes—such as having you so conspicuously on his hands in the small hours. You know, my dear, you’re rather a big responsibility in such a scandalous place after midnight.”
At that—at the complete unexpectedness and the inconceivable audacity of it—Lily could not restrain the tribute of an astonished laugh.
“Well, really—considering it was you who burdened him with the responsibility!”
Mrs. Dorset took this with an exquisite mildness. “By not having the superhuman cleverness to discover you in that frightful rush for the train? Or the imagination to believe that you’d take it without us—you and he all alone—instead of waiting quietly in the station till we DID manage to meet you?”
Lily’s colour rose: it was growing clear to her that Bertha was pursuing an object, following a line she had marked out for herself. Only, with such a doom impending, why waste time in these childish efforts to avert it? The puerility of the attempt disarmed Lily’s indignation: did it not prove how horribly the poor creature was frightened?
“No; by our simply all keeping together at Nice,” she returned.