“My dear,” she said suddenly one day, “this stupid illness of mine mustn’t interfere with Jack’s happiness. Remember, the wedding was to be at Florence, and, perhaps, if it had not been for me, it would all have been settled by this time.”
Phillis turned away her head as she answered—
“I don’t think it can be so soon as you fancy.”
“But why?” Miss Cartwright persisted. “On my account? Come, my dear, tell me exactly whether that has not been on your mind and Jack’s.”
“He has not spoken about it,” said the girl with an effort. “Indeed, dear Miss Cartwright—”
“Call me Aunt Mary, my dear.”
“It can’t be yet.”
Miss Cartwright said no more, she was hardly equal to any sustained conversation, but she took an opportunity later in the day to tell Jack that Phillis should go out for a walk. “Take her to the Uffizi,” she said; “and, Jack—”
“Yes.”
“Don’t give me the sorrow of feeling that I am a hindrance. Let me hear that your marriage day is fixed.”