“You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered; “but I for one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste— indeed, had it not been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful to-day. Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but to hear what the doctor had to say.”
“A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said Ellen drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation.
A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs. Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone.
“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen presently. “I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is not good for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly, and also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.”
“I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I am sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness threatening the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a strain upon her nerves.”
“A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows.
“Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so. Really, Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly.
“Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered. “Either you are the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance out of sheer contrariness.”
“Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters, Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church tower has not improved my wits.”
“Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told you when you came home?”