“I’m not fit—I’m not really,” she said, and she tugged at Angela’s hand, as if she would refuse to go in.
“Oh, you are fit enough,” said Angela, “you are my friend.”
When they got inside, Angela said something to a man who was standing near in livery, and then they went down a passage, where they met no one, up some low steps, along another passage and then a door was flung open, and Angela and Nesta entered. They entered a pretty bedroom, furnished as Nesta had never seen a bedroom before. Angela went up to a girl who was sitting by the window sewing.
“Clements,” she said, “this is my friend. I want you to put her into one of my pretty dresses, so that she may come down to dinner with me. Attend to her and see to everything she wants; she will sleep here to-night. This room leads out of my room, dear,” she said, giving Nesta another smiling glance, and then she left her.
Clements dressed Nesta in white, and she would have thought on another occasion that she had never looked so nice. But she was really past thinking of how she looked, for somehow Angela’s treatment was awaking something different within her, something which had never, even on that night when her mother was so terribly ill, been truly awakened before. She looked humble and very sad when Angela came back to her.
“You look quite sweet,” said Angela, giving her a kiss. “Come along downstairs. By the way, I have sent a telegram to Marcia to tell her that you are all right, and that I am bringing you back to-morrow.”
“Home?” said Nesta.
“Well, to your mother. That will make you happy, won’t it?”
“Mothery!” said Nesta, and there was a lump in her throat.
“I’ll tell you all about it after dinner. I have excellent news for you,” said Angela.