“Now, that I do not believe; but I will keep my verses until they are quite finished, each stanza correct, the swing, the meter perfect. By the way, have you seen the Chetwynds since they came down?”
“No.”
“I hear that Eileen has taken some dreadful disease exploring in back slums. Her mother is in a terrible state.”
“But is Eileen really ill?” asked Leslie, starting up.
“So I have heard; they say she is rather bad. Oh, my dear, it is only the body; pray don’t worry!”
“But, Belle, this is intolerable. We cannot do without our bodies while we live. Poor Eileen ill! What did you say? Fever?”
“I do not know that I did; but it is fever—typhoid or typhus, or something of that sort. I didn’t quite catch the name. It may be smallpox, but I don’t think so.”
“Belle, you are intolerable; you have no sympathy.”
“Intolerable?” said Belle. “Now, my dear Leslie, for goodness’ sake, don’t get commonplace. You may be quite certain that Eileen has the best doctors and the
best nurses which London can afford. Does it help her that you should have that flush on your cheeks and that frown between your brows? Does it help her that you should abuse me? All this emotion is waste—waste of sympathy.”