“Luckily for us,” Lord Milborough remarked, in a low voice.
“I detest those nurses,” broke in Mrs Martyn. “One must submit to them, and all that. Still, I shall always believe that they delight in exaggeration. I’m sure one hears enough of such an illness as Mr Forbes’, and of course it must run its course. But I do not see why one should be alarmed as to the result.”
Wareham looked without answering. Anne shot him a glance which meant, “Do not mind her.” She chattered on—
“And you won’t be tempted? It really is a pity. Well, come in to-night and hear our adventures.”
Anne lingered a moment behind the others. “Let me hear from yourself. Such garbled reports reach me! I am so sorry for him!”
“He shall be told that.”
“And for you. But that I dare say you don’t believe.”
He was too ready. She sighed.
“All this going about does not look like it, but what can I do? We live in a world in which poor women can’t speak or act without remark fluttering about them like harpies. If one could only be oneself!”
With that she was gone. Wareham paced up and down his stones. What did it all suggest? If her words were for Hugh, vanity was scarcely answerable for the conviction that something was meant for him. He hastily pushed away the thought, which at such a time seemed brutal, and looked round him in search of assistance for casting off meditation. The energy of movement presented itself invitingly; he saw a boat near, and signing to its owner, rowed for half-an-hour with purposeless vigour about the harbour, coming in stiff, but braced. As he reached the hotel, Dr Scott met him, and answered his unspoken question. “Very ill.”