Hugh and his wife, when both had read the letter, exchanged uneasy glances.
'It isn't the money,' said Carnaby. 'Hang the money! But—after all, Sibyl, she's your mother.'
'And what does that mean?' Sibyl returned coldly. 'Shall I feel the least bit of sorrow if she dies? Am I to play the hypocrite just because this woman brought me into the world? We have always hated each other, and whose fault? When I was a child, she left me to dirty-minded, thieving servants; they were my teachers, and it's wonderful enough that—that nothing worse came of it. When I grew up, she left me to do as I pleased—anything so that I gave her no trouble. Do you wish me to go and pretend——'
'I tell you what—I'll run down to Weymouth myself, shall I? Perhaps I might arrange something—for her comfort, I mean.'
Sibyl carelessly assented. Having business in town, Hugh could not start till afternoon, but he would reach Weymouth by half-past six, and might manage to be back again in time for Mrs. Rolfe's concert tomorrow.
'I shouldn't put myself to any inconvenience on that account,' said Sibyl, smiling.
'Out of regard for Rolfe, that's all.'
He left home at eleven, transacted his business, and at half-past one turned in for lunch at a Strand restaurant before proceeding to Waterloo. As he entered, he saw Mrs. Rolfe, alone at one of the tables; she was drawing on her gloves, about to leave. They met with friendly greeting, though Hugh, from the look with which Mrs. Rolfe recognised him, had a conviction that his growing dislike of her was fully reciprocated. In the brief talk before Alma withdrew, he told her that he was going down into the country.
'To Coventry?' she asked, turning her eyes upon him.
'No; to Weymouth. Mrs. Larkfield is no better, I'm afraid, and—Sibyl wants me to see her.'