"Is she aware that Constance knows she is her mother?"
"We think so. Indeed, we are sure. She has been so ill, and is yet so fragile, that we dare not excite her in the least degree. So Constance has been very careful, but every look, every syllable, shows that her mother is in no doubt on that point."
"It's a pretty hard nut to crack," said Pyne. He blew cigar smoke into rings. Seemingly the operation aided reflection.
"Say, Enid," he went on. "If the weather is fine tomorrow, do you think Connie would come out for a drive?"
"I don't know. Certainly she needs some fresh air. What between her anxiety and her mother's illness, they are beginning to look like sisters."
"Just mention to Connie, in her father's presence, that if the sun shines at eleven, I will be along in a dogcart. Mrs. Vansittart will be downstairs by that time?"
"Yes."
"And if Connie comes out with me, you just find an errand in town. Rope Jack into the scheme, or any old dodge of that sort. Take care Mr. Brand knows of it. By the way, send Mrs. Sheppard out too."
"What in the world—"
"You're just too pretty to think hard, Enid. It causes wrinkles. Do as I ask, there's a good girl."