"I think I will go for a walk," said Anita, rising slowly from her seat. There was a hint of exasperation in her voice which escaped neither of her hearers.
Miss Trevor peered anxiously over her spectacles at the retreating figure.
Campbell's rubicund countenance had grown strangely grave.
"No better?" he asked as soon as Anita was out of earshot.
Miss Trevor shook her head disconsolately.
"Worse, I think. I can't imagine what can be the matter with her. She seemed at one time to have recovered from her terrible experience. But now, as you can see for yourself, she is absolutely wretched. She takes no interest in anything. She hardly eats enough to keep a bird alive. If she goes on like this much longer, she will fret herself into her grave. Yet whenever I question her, she assures me that she is all right. I really don't know what I ought to do."
"Has it never occurred to you that she may be wondering why Wilmersley has never written to her, nor been to see her?"
"Lord Wilmersley? Why—no. She hardly ever mentions him."
"She never mentions him," corrected Guy. "She inquires after everybody at Geralton except Cyril. Doesn't that strike you as very suspicious?"
"Oh, you don't mean that——"