“To—to—to—what?”
“Well, to go about the world without anyone to take care of her. It’s an awful position, you know, for a beautiful woman like that.”
“I know it is. But after all, there’s no reason why she should shut herself up and refuse to see her friends. I think it’s a great pity she went away from here; I say it quite disinterestedly. After all, you are some sort of relation to her, you know—”
“Nephew,” said Bayre, promptly.
Southerley made a gesture of impatience.
“At any rate, you have the same name. And—and—and we were interested in the child, you know, all of us. Now it’s better for a boy—”
Bayre interrupted him by a burst of ironical laughter; and Southerley, who took things seriously, checked himself and withdrew, with the remark that he was not going to stay there to listen to his friend making a fool of himself.
But indeed Bayre’s merriment had been of a hollow sort, for he felt the bitter irony of the situation quite as strongly as Southerley did.
It was two days after this that Bayre, who was in a state of greater anxiety than ever concerning Olwen, experienced a thrill of mingled emotions on finding a letter waiting for him on the sitting-room table. It was from Olwen, and it bore the St Luke’s postmark. It was very short, and the hand-writing betrayed the agitation of the writer.
“Dear Mr Bayre,—I am writing against orders, but I feel that I ought and I must. I think your uncle is dying, but he will not see a doctor, though I sent for one on my own responsibility. If by any means you can come, I do earnestly beg you to do so.—Yours sincerely,
“Olwen Eden.”