“I ran away this time, and you must not tell anybody, Phoebe.”
“Oh, ain’t you got spirit just?” said Phoebe in a tone of admiration. “But, miss, I hopes you won’t get into trouble.”
“No, no. I mean it does not matter. I want to see Mr. Pryor at once.”
“Oh, Miss Nancy! ain’t you heard, miss?”
“No. What—what?”
“Why, my dear, I am afraid you will be disappointed. He got a telegram this morning from his son, who is took very bad in Spain, and he has gone off to him. You know he had only one son, and he lives most of his time at Madrid, and he is took shocking bad—almost at death’s door—with some sort of fever; and the dear old gentleman was near off his head all day, and he has gone to him. He is away, Miss Nan, in the train, being whirled out of London by this time. You cannot see him, miss, however hard you try.”
“It does not matter,” said Nan. She spoke in a low tone; there was a sense at once of relief and of disappointment in her breast. It seemed to her at that moment that her good angels left her, and that her bad angels drew near. Nevertheless, she was relieved.
“I will see you back if you wish, miss.”
“No; it does not matter. I will get home as soon as I can.”
“Have you any message, miss? Perhaps mistress has Mr. Pryor’s address.”