'Yes,' Wilfrid replied; 'she looked far too ill to be up.'
He had seated himself on the sofa. His hands would not hold the tea-cup steadily; he put it down by his side.
'I fear there is small chance of her getting much better in that house of illness,' said Mrs. Baxendale, observing his agitation. 'Can't we persuade her to go somewhere? Her mother is in excellent hands.'
'I wish we could,' Wilfrid replied, clearly without much attention to his words.
'You didn't propose anything of the kind?'
He made no answer. A short silence intervened, and he felt there was no choice but to declare the truth.
'The meeting was a very painful one,' he began. 'It is difficult to speak to you about it. Do you think that she has perfectly recovered?—that her mind is wholly—'
He hesitated; it was dreadful to be speaking in this way of Emily. The sound of his voice reproached him; what words would not appear brutal in such a case?
'You fear—?'
Wilfrid rose and walked across the room. It seemed impossible to speak, yet equally so to keep his misery to himself.