“What’s that? What’s the matter?” cried Alison sharply, as the door opened and the butler appeared. “We are engaged.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man. “Mrs Barnett, sir, rang the bell. Master wants Mr Neil directly.”
“O Neil, he is worse,” sobbed Isabel; and, as her brother hurried out of the room and across the hall, she followed, and they all entered together, just as Aunt Anne was coming to summon them, her ruddy face looking blanched and strange in places, while her eyes were wide open and she seemed to have been scared.
“Pray come to him, my dear,” she whispered. “He frightens me.”
“What is that?” said Mr Elthorne sharply. “What is the meaning of that whispering? Am I to lie here without any attention because I have had a bit of a fall? Here, Neil, quick. It is disgraceful. Anne—Isabel—you can go. I want to talk to Neil.” Isabel crept deprecatingly to the speaker’s side and bent down to kiss him.
He responded to her kiss, and then seemed annoyed with himself, as if he considered his conduct weak.
“There, there,” he cried. “Don’t hang about me, my dear. You make me hot. There is nothing much the matter. Go and nurse up your aunt, and try to teach her to be sensible.”
“Oh, papa, dear!”
“Now, don’t you begin to be absurd too. I’m hurt and in pain. Let me ask you one question—Is it likely to do me good to have a foolish woman sitting close to me soaking her pocket handkerchief?”
“Ralph, dear, I was only sympathetic,” cried Aunt Anne.