"She is rather large."
This was hopeless—a conversation of this sort—Jane Fitzgerald decided. It told her nothing.
Theodora's face had become so schooled it did not, even to her step-mother's sharp eyes, betray any emotion.
"I am glad if the folly is over," she thought to herself. "But I shouldn't wonder if it Wasn't something to do with it still, after all. If it is not that, what can it be?" Then she said aloud: "He is going through America, and we shall meet him when we get back in November, most likely. I shall persuade him to come down to Florida with us, if I can. He seems to be aimlessly wandering round, I suppose, shooting things; but Florida is the loveliest place in the world, and I wish you and Josiah would come, too, my dear."
"That would be beautiful," said Theodora, "but Josiah is not fit for a long journey. We shall go to the Riviera, most probably, when the weather gets cold."
"Have you no message for him then, Theodora, when I see him?"
And now there was some sign. Theodora clasped her hands together, and she said in a constrained voice:
"Yes. Tell him I hope he is well—and I am well—just that," and she walked ever to the dressing-table and picked up a brush, and put it down again nervously.