Mildred took a letter from her pocket, and half averted her face as she handed it.
“It’s nothing particular,” said Monica, putting it away under her pillow. “Thank you, dear.”
But her cheeks had become hot, and she trembled.
“Monica—”
“Well?”
“You wouldn’t care to tell me about—anything? You don’t think it would make your mind easier?”
For a minute Monica lay back, gazing at the wall, then she looked round quickly, with a shamefaced laugh.
“It’s very silly of me not to have told you long before this. But you’re so sensible; I was afraid. I’ll tell you everything. Not now, but as soon as I get to Rutland Street. I shall come to-morrow.”
“Do you think you can? You look dreadfully bad still.”
“I shan’t get any better here,” replied the invalid in a whisper. “Poor Virgie does depress me so. She doesn’t understand that I can’t bear to hear her repeating the kind of things she has heard from Miss Barfoot and Miss Nunn. She tries so hard to look forward hopefully—but I know she is miserable, and it makes me more miserable still. I oughtn’t to have left you; I should have been all right in a day or two, with you to help me. You don’t make-believe, Milly; it’s all real and natural good spirits. It has done me good only to see your dear old face.”