“Miss Winstead,” she said, “I have just been sitting with the child. She seems much better.”
“Do you think so?” replied Miss Winstead shortly.
“I do. Why do you stare at me in that disapproving manner? You really are all most unnatural. Who should know of the health of her child if her own mother does not? The little darling is recovering fast—I have just been having a most interesting talk with her. She would like me to have the bazaar.”
“The bazaar!” echoed Miss Winstead. “Surely you don’t mean to have it here?”
“Yes, here. The child is greatly interested. She would like me to have it, and I am going to send out invitations at once. It will be held on the 24th and 25th of the month.”
“I would not, if I were you,” said Miss Winstead slowly. “You know what the doctors have said.”
Mrs. Ogilvie first turned white, and then her face grew red and angry.
“I don’t believe a single word of what they say,” she retorted with some passion. “The child looks better every day. What the dear little thing wants is rousing. The bazaar will do her no end of good. Mark my words, Miss Winstead, we shall have Sibyl on her feet again by the 24th.”
“You forget,” said Miss Winstead slowly, “the Sahara is due in England about that date. Mr. Ogilvie will be back. He will not be prepared for—for what he has to see.”
“I know quite well that my husband will return about then, but I don’t understand what you mean by saying that he will not be prepared. There will be nothing but joyful tidings to give him. The child nearly herself and the bazaar at its height. Delightful! Now pray, my good creature, don’t croak any more; I must rush up to town this afternoon—there is a great deal to see about.”