"Ah, indeed!" demanded Geoff. "What will you do?"
"That's jist what I was wonderin' as I came along 'ere," declared Philia. "Comin' 'ome tired as she does, 'ardly able to stand sometimes—pore child—and not a soul there to say a word to 'er, or git 'er so much as a cup o' tea! I'm afraid I ought to tell Mr. Topham as 'ow I can't come."
Evarne did not answer for a few seconds.
"It does sound a touching picture, certainly. You make me quite sorry for myself," she confessed. Then with a sudden forced renewal of brightness: "But there, it can't be helped. Any number of models live alone always. Of course Philia must go to Scotland, and I mustn't be selfish and lazy."
"It ain't a question of bein' jist selfish and lazy," rejoined the old woman rather testily. "I ain't sure it would be right of me to go gallawantin' jist now. 'Twould be different if yer was quite well and strong. But I ask yer to answer honest. Ain't this 'ot weather upsettin' yer? Ain't yer bein' overworked or somethin'? She 'arf fainted again last night, sir. She ain't so strong by 'alf as she likes to make out. I didn't ought to go, I knows it, though I do want to."
"Evarne, you told me you felt better," cried Geoff in mingled reproach and alarm.
"So I am this morning," she rejoined, smiling at him. "Now, you run off home, Philia, and think about packing."
But the old woman shook her head, lingered and looked at Geoff with eyes full of doubt and anxiety.
"Do you think I ought to leave 'er lonely, sir?"
He was decidedly uneasy at the idea.