“Take great care of her,” said Miss Bostal, solicitously, as Nell was hoisted in, very pale and lifeless and miserable. “And if you will take my advice, you will send her off to her aunt in London by the first train to-morrow morning.”
George Claris, who had remained taciturn, sullen, and on the whole rather neglectful of his niece, frowned as he threw a quick glance at her.
“Oh, she’s all right,” he said, with gruffness most unusual with him in speaking of his darling Nell. “She only wants the fresh air to bring her to. How are you going to get back, Miss Bostal? Can’t I give you a lift? We’ll make room for you.”
He looked up at Nell, expecting her to echo his words, and to make room for her friend; but the girl never moved.
Her uncle looked angry, but Miss Theodora smiled indulgently.
“Leave her alone,” she whispered. “She’s not herself yet. This wretched business has been too much for her.”
“Why should it be too much for her more than for anybody else?” asked the innkeeper, fiercely.
Nell turned with a start, and her eyes were full of horror as she met those of her uncle. Miss Theodora pulled him impatiently by the arm.
“Men have no sympathy,” she said reproachfully. “My father is just the same. You don’t make any allowance for a woman’s nerves. And yet, if we don’t have nerves, you complain that we are mannish and unlovable. Oh, Mr. Claris, I didn’t think it of you! I didn’t, indeed. I’ve often thought that your gentleness to Nell was a pattern to be copied by other men in their treatment of ladies.”
The excitement of the day had rendered Miss Bostal much more loquacious and condescending than was usual with her. Her father, who had not been in court, came up at this moment, and, with a nod to George Claris and a cold salutation to Nell, drew Miss Theodora away.