"It is about Judy; she's not well!" said Hilda. "I ought to go to her, I ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?"
"Good gracious!" said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. "What is wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious——"
"No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I ought to go to her—I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are starting at once?"
"My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?"
"Oh, Jasper, you don't understand—Aunt Marjorie says——Here, read this bit."
"I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda."
"Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins—'Judy has not been well——'"
Hilda read the whole passage, a lump in her throat almost choking her voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew her to his heart.
"Why, you poor little, foolish, nervous creature," he said, "there's nothing wrong with Judy now; she was ill, but she's much better. My darling Hilda—my love, you must really not disturb yourself about a trifling mishap of this sort."
"It isn't a trifle, Jasper. Oh, I know Judy—I know how she looks and what she feels. Oh, do, do let me go back to her, darling."