"Then will you tell me what it is that you fear for her?" Avery said.
He was looking straight at her through the gloom, but she could not see his eyes behind their glasses. "Well," he said somewhat brusquely at length, "to be quite honest, I fear—mind you, I only fear—some trouble, possibly merely some delicacy, of the lungs. Without a careful examination I cannot speak definitely. But I think there is little room for doubt that the tendency is there."
"I see," Avery said. She was silent a moment; then, "You have not considered it advisable to say this to her father?" she said.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Would it make any difference?"
Avery was silent.
He went on with gathering force. "I went to him once, Mrs. Denys,—once only—about his wife's health. I told him in plain language that she needed every care, every consideration, that without these she would probably lose all her grip on life and become a confirmed invalid with shattered nerves. I was very explicit. I told him the straight, unvarnished truth. I didn't like my job, but I felt it must be done. And he—good man—laughed in my face, begged me to croak no more, and assured me that he was fully capable of managing all his affairs, including his wife and family, in his own way. He was touring in Switzerland when the last child was born."
"Hound!" said Avery, in a low voice.
Tudor uttered a brief laugh, and abruptly quitted the subject. "That little girl needs very careful watching, Mrs. Denys. She should never be allowed to overtire herself, mentally or physically. And if she should develop any untoward symptom, for Heaven's sake don't hesitate to send for me! I shan't blame you for being too careful."
"I understand," Avery said.
He flicked his horse's ears, and the animal broke into a trot.