“I think not! She told me she had left the Red House for good and all, but she did not say where she was staying! Though, after all, I think she is in most want of comfort of the two.”
“Oh! no!” replied Margaret, faintly, “there is no grief like that of—of—” She did not finish her sentence, but left the room hastily in order to assume her walking things.
“Will she ever get over the loss of her child?” demanded Colonel Pullen, gloomily. The doctor regarded him with a half-amused surprise.
“My dear fellow, though it is useless to preach the doctrine to a bereaved mother, the loss of an innocent baby is perhaps the least trying in the category of human ills. To rear the child, as thousands do, to be unloving, or unsympathetic, or ungrateful, is a thousand times worse. But it is too soon for your dear wife to acknowledge it. Let her go to this other mother and let them cry together. It will do her all the good in the world!”
And the doctor, having finished his luncheon, put on his top-coat and prepared to make a round of professional calls.
Margaret came back ready for her visit.
“I shall not offer to go with you, darling,” said the Colonel, “because my presence would only be inconvenient. But mind you keep the cab waiting, or you may find some difficulty in getting another in that district. What address shall I give the driver?”
“First to our florist in Regent Street that I may get some white flowers.”
In another minute she was off, and in about an hour afterwards, she found herself outside the Red House, which looked gloomier than ever, with all the blinds drawn down. Margaret rang the front door bell, which was answered by Miss Wynward.
“Can I see Madame Gobelli?” commenced Margaret, “I have just heard the sad news, and came to condole with her!”