Myra smiled; but the doctor saw her face slowly whiten.
“Yes,” she said; “oh, yes! I will not fail him. I will be adequate—at last.” Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her: “Did you know of this? Is it why you came?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, slowly. “The duchess sent me. She was at the War Office this morning when the news came in, inquiring for Ronald Ingram, who has been wounded, and is down with fever. She telephoned for me, and insisted on the telegram being kept back until six o’clock this evening, in order to give me time to get here, and to break the news to you first, if it seemed well.”
Myra gazed at him, wide-eyed. “And you let me say all that, about Michael and myself?”
“Dear lady,” said the doctor, and few had ever heard that deep firm voice, so nearly tremulous, “I could not stop you. But you did not say one word which was not absolutely loving and loyal.”
“How could I have?” queried Myra, her face growing whiter, and her eyes wider and more bright. “I have never had a thought which was not loyal and loving.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “Poor brave heart,—I know.”
Myra took up the telegram, and read it again.
“Killed,” she said; “killed. I wish I knew how.”
“The duchess is ready to come to you immediately, if you would like to have her,” suggested the doctor.