‘It may be Fanny. I don’t think Beatrice would call, unless it’s to say something about her sister. She had better come up here, I suppose?’
Mary retired, and in a few moments there entered, not Fanny, but Beatrice. She was civilly, not cordially, welcomed. Her eye, as she spoke the words natural at such a meeting, dwelt with singular persistency on Nancy’s face.
‘You are quite well again?’
‘Quite, thank you.’
‘It has been a troublesome illness, I’m afraid.’
Nancy hesitated, detecting a peculiarity of look and tone which caused her uneasiness.
‘I had a sort of low fever—was altogether out of sorts—“below par,” the doctor said. Are you all well?’
Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park.
‘I’m out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there’s Fanny. You know all about her, I dare say?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Nancy replied distantly.