"Ah yes, my dear—why? That is a question for you to answer, is it not?"
"For me?"
"On Tuesday night," continued Lady Shuttleworth, "he was ill when he left home to come here. He would come. It was a terrible night for a delicate boy to go out. And he didn't stay here, I understand. He went out to buy something after closing time, and stood a long while trying to wake the people up."
"Yes," said Priscilla, feeling guilty, "I—that was my fault. He went for me."
"Yes my dear. Since then he has been ill. I've come to ask you if you'll drive back with me and see if—if you cannot persuade him that you are happy. He seems to be much—troubled."
"Troubled?"
"He seems to be afraid you are not happy. You know," she added with a little quavering smile, "Tussie is very kind. He is very unselfish. He takes everybody's burdens on his shoulders. He seems to be quite haunted by the idea that your life here is unendurably uncomfortable, and it worries him dreadfully that he can't get to you to set things straight. I think if he were to see you, and you were very cheerful, and—and smiled, my dear, it might help to get him over this."
"Get him over this?" echoed Priscilla. "Is he so ill?"
Lady Shuttleworth looked at her and said nothing.
"Of course I'll come," said Priscilla, hastily ringing the bell.