“Oh no; at least, not much,” said Annie. She reflected for a minute, wondering what she could safely say. “The fact is, Uncle Maurice—the dear old uncle with whom I live—is not quite well. He is a little poorly, and confined to bed.”
“Then you would, of course, like to return to him,” said Lady Lushington, speaking quickly and with decision.
“Oh,” said Annie hastily and scalding herself with hot coffee as she spoke, “that is the very last thing Uncle Maurice wishes. It is quite a passing indisposition, and he is so glad that I am here enjoying my good time. I will wire, dear Lady Lushington, if you will permit me, after breakfast, and give my uncle and the cousin who is with him our address at Zermatt. Then if there should be the slightest danger I can go to him immediately, can I not?”
“Of course, child,” said Lady Lushington, helping herself to some toast; “but I should imagine that if he were ill your place now would be at his bedside.”
“Oh, but it would distress him most awfully—that is, of course, unless you wish to get rid of me—”
“You know we don’t wish that, Annie,” said Mabel.
“Certainly we don’t,” said Lady Lushington in a more cordial tone. “You are exceedingly useful, and a pleasant, nice girl to take about. I have not half thanked you for all the help you have given me. If you can reconcile it to your conscience to remain while your uncle, who must stand in the place of a father to you, is ill, I shall be glad to keep you; so rest assured on that point.”
“I can certainly reconcile it to my conscience,” said Annie, breaking a roll in two as she spoke; “for, you see, it is not even as though my uncle Maurice were alone. My cousin can look after him.”
“Oh, you have a girl cousin? I did not know of that.”
“Not a girl; he is a man. His name is John Saxon.”