“Oh, dear! oh, dear! And his children, who died here! How could he go on living in this cottage!”
Grimshaw, looking very tired and worn, answered curtly:
“Men like Farleigh can’t uproot themselves. He is part of your soil. And—forgive my saying so—Lady Selina doesn’t exactly encourage her labourers to labour elsewhere.”
“Of course she doesn’t. You . . . you look very tired, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“I’ve had a bout of that malaria. It prevented my coming here, as you asked me, earlier. It’s not easy for a doctor to bear patiently his own physical infirmities. Please tell Timothy that I’ll look in again presently. For the moment nothing can be done.”
He bowed and moved towards the door. Cicely was infinitely distressed by his appearance and manner. Did he deliberately wish to impose barriers between herself and him? Sympathy for him welled up and overbrimmed.
“Stay one moment,” she faltered.
He turned quickly, standing still, with his eyes upon her troubled face. She continued hurriedly:
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends.”