Then, when I said this a gentle light stole over his face—such a light I'm sure that few people ever saw there—perhaps nobody ever had except Mrs. Hudson the day he proposed to her.
"Visions?" he asked kindly. "A House that's a Home—and English gardens."
"That's not fair!" I warned. "I really ought not to have gone out there to-night—and I don't know whether he'll want all this written up or not—for I didn't mention the Herald's name in our conversation, and—"
"Bosh!" he snapped. "Rot! And piffle! You had a right to go out there if I sent you—and of course he can't object to the public knowing now! Why, I expect any one of the reporters could have got as much out of him to-night as you did!"
"Do you really think so?" I asked, from the doorway. "Good night, Mr. Hudson. You can easily make two columns out of that, by drawing on your—past experience."
He waved me crossly away, without once looking up or saying "Thank you" and I caught a car home. Half an hour later, when the curve was turned into the full face of West Clydemont Place I still thought I was "seeing things." A big motor-car stood before our door, but my heart changed its tune when I got closer. It was not a limousine. It was a doctor's coupé. Mother had suffered a violent chill.
"Grace, I—have no words!" she moaned, as I came into the room.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SKIES FALL
Before morning words began coming to her—gradually. First she moaned, then muttered, then raged. The chill disappeared and fever came on. By daybreak, however, they had both been left with the things that were, and mother slipped into her kimono.
"Go bring me the morning paper," she condescended, after the passing of the creamery wagon announced that busy life was still going on.