"What is it, dear?" he said, for his wife's fair face was troubled.
"Oh, darling," she answered, with a sob in her voice, "I've had bad news from Nice."
"About Dorothy?"
"Yes, Miss Dalton, the lady nurse who is with her has written. It's all been no use, Gillie, no use at all! She's dying, dear. The doctor from Cannes who has been attending her has said so. And Sir William Larus who is at Mentone was called in too. They give her three weeks or a month. They've cabled to India but it's a forlorn hope. Harold won't be able to get to her in time—though there's just a chance."
She sank down upon the bed and covered her face with her hands.
She was speaking of her sister, Lady Davidson, who was stricken with consumption. Sir Harold Davidson was a major in the Indian Army, a baronet without much money, and a keen soldier. Mary's sister had developed the disease in England, where she had been ordered from Simla by the doctors there. She was supposed to be "run down" and no more then. Phthisis had been diagnosed in London—incipient only—and she had been sent to the Riviera at once. The reports from Nice had become much worse during the last few weeks, and now—this letter.
Gilbert went to his wife and sat down beside her upon the bed, drawing her to him. He was fond of Dorothy Davidson and also of her husband, but he knew that Mary adored her sister.
"Darling," he said, "don't give way. It may not be so bad after all. And so much depends upon the patient in all illnesses—doesn't it? Morton Sims was telling us so the other night, you remember? Dolly is an awfully sporting sort of girl. She won't give in."
Mary leant her head upon his shoulder. The strong arms that held her brought consolation. The lips of the husband and wife met.
"It's dear of you to say so," Mary said at length, "but I know, dear. The doctor and the nurse have been quite explicit. Dorothy is dying, Gillie, I can't let her die alone, can I?"