Beatrice entered, rustling in a light, shimmery dress. Her face expressed embarrassment rather than surprise; after the first exchange of glances, she avoided his eager look. Her hand had lain but coldly in his. Wilfrid, face to face with her, found more difficulty in speaking than he had anticipated.
'I have come directly from Switzerland,' he began. 'You mentioned in a letter to my aunt that—'
His hesitation of a moment was relieved by Beatrice.
'You mean Miss Hood's illness,' she said, looking down at her hands, which were lightly clasped on her lap.
'Yes. I wish for news. I thought it likely you might know—'
Probably it was the effect of his weariness; he could not speak in his usual straightforward way; hesitancy, to his own annoyance, made gaps and pauses in his sentences.
'We heard this morning,' Beatrice said, looking past his face to the window, 'that she is better. The danger seems to be over.'
'There has been danger?'
'The day before yesterday she was given up.'
'So ill as that.' Wilfrid spoke half to himself, and indeed it cost him an effort to make his voice louder. He began, 'Can you tell me—' and again paused.