"I haven't said much yet—have I?" said Betty. "Last time we met you were suffering horribly with neuralgia. Is it better?"
"I'm a martyr now to dyspepsia. I'm trying light and colour, Babbit, you know. If your poor, dear uncle were alive, how interested he would be. I'm wearing red next the skin."
"In July?" ejaculated Mrs. Corrance.
"And I've changed the paper in my boudoir, which used to be a depressing blue, to bright yellow. All the water I drink is acted upon by a red lens. I want Mark to read Babbit. He has had a sort of breakdown. You heard of it?"
"A breakdown?" exclaimed Betty. "Did you say a—breakdown?"
Light flashed upon her. Why had she not thought of this? Her thoughts crowding together clamoured so shrilly that she could barely hear Mrs. Samphire's querulous reply.
"We learned, quite by chance, that he was in a sanatorium in Sutherland. He ought to have come to Pitt Hall."
"Have you asked him?" said Betty in a low voice.
"He would come to us if he wanted us."
Shortly after Mrs. Samphire took her leave.