“Oh, of course! So have I.”
“But you think in this case—” The words seemed forced from him against his will.
“Oh, I don’t forecast. I have no reason for my opinion beyond what all know, but I hear the doctors daily report, and it—well, no one can call it encouraging. Oh, most sad! Extremely sad! The only son, I think?” Satisfied on this point, she went on—“Now that you are come, I have been telling my husband that as we can leave him in good hands we must see about getting home. Of course, on no account would I have gone when there was no one here to take charge, but poor Tom is hard to hold, Mr Wareham, now that we are in the middle of August.”
He implied understanding, and asked whether they thought of leaving by the Saturday steamer.
“Not a berth to be had. No, Lord Milborough is most kind. He will engage some woman here as a sort of stewardess, and will take us all. I do think it a delightful arrangement, and so would you if you had seen the yacht.”
Wareham thought his approval so unnecessary that he remained silent, and let her talk on, while he, half unconsciously, watched Lord Milborough and Anne. The doctor’s description rose in his mind, but of indifference none was apparent with Anne near. She had gone to the other end of the room, and sunk into a chair, Lord Milborough and young Sir Walter attaching themselves conversationally to it. Colonel Martyn and Mr Burnby, who was older than the other men, discussed salmon-fishing at the table. Wareham caught words which implied that Anne was being reproached with having left them.
“Why on earth you should stop in this awfully stuffy hole at all, I can’t for the life of me conceive!” urged the owner of the Camilla. “You might as well come and live on board at once, and if you’re anxious, I’ll keep a service of messengers running between the inn and the harbour. Come, consent!”
Anne shook her head, smiling.
“I’ve a weakness for feeling the ground firm under my feet.”
Lord Milborough flung an inimical glance at Wareham.