"Tell your mother what?" To Napier's relief, Miss Greta stopped her.
"That I'm going to London to see you off."
"No, dear." Greta caught at a tress of the girl's thick hair.
In the swift parley that followed, Madge, who had been strangely quiet until now, flatly refused to be left behind. "I'd go," she declared with sudden passion, "if I had to walk to London!"
Miss Greta leaned heavily against the banister. What would you?—her glance toward Singleton seemed to say. This is the devotion I am accustomed to inspire. Then hurriedly to Madge:
"Listen, darling. You must be very good and helpful in these last—whether they're minutes or whether they're hours—"
"D-don't!" A gulping sound, more angry than tender, was throttled in Wildfire's throat.
"You'd better, first of all," advised Miss Greta, "go and telephone Brewster to get the rooms ready."
Napier gaped at the effrontery of the suggestion.
"She means at Lowndes Square?" Nan put the hurried question with eyes of sympathy on Madge, who was plainly not at the moment in any condition to speak. "Couldn't I do it for you?"