Chapter Eleven.
The Letter.
“I will go, of course,” said Annie, jumping up; “what is the hour, Mrs Shelf?”
“It is a quarter to twelve. You had best go at once; if you don’t delay you will catch Dr Brett when he returns home for lunch. Billy can put the saddle on Dobbin for you, and there’s the old habit hanging on the peg in your bedroom.”
“Detestable old habit,” thought Annie, “and horrid Dobbin, and shocking side-saddle! Oh dear! oh dear! But whatever happens, I must get that letter off immediately.”
“Why are you so slow?” said Mrs Shelf, looking at the girl with great annoyance. “Your uncle wants medical aid, and he ought to have it.”
“I will go, of course,” said Annie, “but not for a few minutes. Don’t fidget, please; I don’t believe there is anything serious the matter with Uncle Maurice. He often has these headaches.”
She went slowly towards the house. Mrs Shelf stood and watched her.
“Well, if there is a heartless piece in the whole of England, it is that girl,” thought the good woman. “What my dear master finds to like in her beats me. If she doesn’t go off immediately for Dr Brett, I’ll put Dobbin to the gig and drive to Rashleigh myself.”