“Bad—very bad. I don't know I'm sure what to say—my feelings are all anyhow, and that's the truth. It's so dreadfully upsetting altogether.”
“Is my nurse with her?”
“Yes; she's there. She's a very headstrong woman, but capable, I don't deny. Daisy's very weak. Oh, it IS upsetting! And now I suppose there'll have to be a burial. There really seems no end to it. And all because of—of that man.” And Mrs. Wagge turned away again to cry into her handkerchief.
Feeling she could never say or do the right thing to the poor lady, Gyp stole out. At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated whether to go up or no. At last, she mounted softly. It must be in the front room that the bereaved girl was lying—the girl who, but a year ago, had debated with such naive self-importance whether or not it was her duty to take a lover. Gyp summoned courage to tap gently. The economic agent opened the door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped her robust and handsome person through into the corridor.
“You, my dear!” she said in a whisper. “That's nice!”
“How is she?”
“Fairly well—considering. You know about it?”
“Yes; can I see her?”
“I hardly think so. I can't make her out. She's got no spirit, not an ounce. She doesn't want to get well, I believe. It's the man, I expect.” And, looking at Gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked: “Is that it? Is he tired of her?”
Gyp met her gaze better than she had believed possible.