And so the argument continued, until one evening, as she sat by herself, the nurse entered softly, closed the door behind her, and came over to her.
“I wish you would go out to-night, ma’am,” said the nurse, “just for an hour or two. I think it would please the master; he is worrying himself because he thinks it is his fault that you do not; and just now”—the woman hesitated for a moment—“just now I want to keep him very quiet.”
“Is he weaker, nurse?”
“Well, he is not stronger, ma’am, and I think—I think we must humour him.”
The Honourable Mrs. Drayton rose, and, crossing to the window, stood for a while looking out.
“But where am I to go, nurse?” she said at length, turning with a smile. “I’ve no invitations anywhere.”
“Can’t you make believe to have one?” said the nurse. “It is only seven o’clock. Say you are going to a dinner-party; you can come home early then. Go and dress yourself, and come down and say good-bye to him, and then come in again about eleven, as though you had just returned.”
“You think I must, nurse?”
“I think it would be better, ma’am. I wish you would try it.”
The Honourable Mrs. Drayton went to the door, then paused.