"No, dear, of course not," he replied rather vaguely, not quite understanding what she meant for a moment.
"She must have some one of her own people with her. Harold will most likely not arrive in time. I must go—mustn't I?"
Then Gilbert realised.
His swift imagination pictured a lonely hotel death-bed among the palms and mimosa of the Côte d'Azur, a pretty and charming girl fading away from the blue white and gold with no loving hands to tend her, and only the paid services of strangers to speed or assuage the young soul's passage from sunshine and laughter to the unknown.
"You must go to her at once, sweetheart," he said gravely.
"Oh, I must! You don't mind my leaving you?"
"How can you ask it? But I will come with you. We will both go. You will want a man."
Mary hesitated for a second, and then she shook her head.
"I shall manage quite well by myself," she said. "It will be better so. I'm quite used to travelling alone as you know. And the journey to Nice is nothing. I shall be in one carriage all the way from Calais. You could come out after, if necessary."
"I would come gladly, dear."