“Oh, no; she didn’t,” said Molly, her face becoming crimson, “she came home to look after mother.”
“You mean to help you to look after her, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, of course. Oh, dear Miss St. Just, aren’t you very tired? I know you are, even though you say in that pretty way that you are always pale, I know you are weary.”
“I’m all right, thank you; I really am.”
Just then Marcia entered the room.
“Angela,” she said, “we shall have supper presently, and afterwards you shall come up and see mother.”
“Oh, Marcia, do you think it well?” said Ethel, who looked very pretty with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
“I should like to go,” said Angela. “Do you think I should harm her?”
No; it would be impossible for such a creature as Angela to harm any one, even if that person were seriously ill; there was repose all over her, sweetness, tenderness, sympathy, where sympathy was possible. But Ethel and Molly, notwithstanding their efforts, did not feel that Angela truly sympathised with them. The moment Marcia came in they began to see this more clearly.
“What are you doing about Nesta?” she said immediately.