THE MESSENGER
"Roses!" said Chris. "How nice!"
She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and smiled.
It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of bravery than mirth. She lay on a couch by the window, looking out under the sun-blinds at the dusty green of the park. Though October had begun, the summer was not yet over, and the heat was considerable. It seemed oppressive after the fresh air of the moors, and Hilda watched her cousin's languor with some anxiety. For her face had scarcely more colour than the flowers she held.
"Is the paper here?" asked Chris.
She also was closely following the progress of the Valpré trial. Though she never discussed it, Hilda was aware that it was the only thing in life in which she took any interest just then.
She gave her the paper containing the last account that Mordaunt had written, and for nearly an hour Chris was absorbed in it. At last, with a sigh, she laid it down, and drew the roses to her again.
"It's very dear of Jack to send them. Hilda, don't you want to go out?
You mustn't stay in always for me."
"I want you to come out too, dear," Hilda said.
"I? Oh, please, dear, I'd rather not." Chris spoke quickly, almost beseechingly. She laid a very thin hand upon Hilda's. "You don't mind?" she said persuasively.