But this was too much for Valentine. He rose and carried himself and his newspapers to the drawing room, where Grace and Harold Pennington were engaged in playing bésique.
“Is Sacha coming in to give us some music?” Grace asked, looking up with her old, bright smile.
Her young guest had worked a beneficial effect upon her spirit.
“Polly will sing to you when she is here,” Harold hastened to say. “She knows any amount of songs—old things, you know—‘Sally in Our Alley,’ and things like that.”
Valentine sat down and watched the game.
His angry feelings were gradually soothed as the moments went by, and when ten o’clock struck and Harold rose obediently at Grace’s word and left them to go to bed, Valentine was quite himself again.
“The boy looks better, Grace,” he said, as the door closed on Harold.
Grace paused before answering. She was putting away the cards and counters.
“I don’t know what to think about him, Val. To-day we were in the post office when Dr. Smythson came in, and while he was talking to me about poor grannie, he was looking at Harold, and listening to his cough. He asked me privately if the boy’s lungs had been sounded, and I said ‘No,’ because Harold remembers nothing of the kind. It was pouring with rain when we left the post office, and Dr. Smythson insisted on driving us home in his brougham. I could see,” Grace finished, slowly, as she shut away the bésique box in a cabinet drawer, “I could see he thought very badly of Harold. I do feel so sorry, Val. Would it be possible for Mrs. Pennington to send the boy away for the benefit of his health—I mean abroad, somewhere?”
Valentine deliberated a moment before he spoke. “It would not be easy, but it could be arranged if it were deemed imperative. I hope, however, you are mistaken, Grace. To me the boy seems better.”