"Here," Felicia answered, laying her hand upon her left side over the heart. She looked earnestly at Carteret as she spoke, conveying to him an alarm she sought to spare Damaris.
"He tries to make little of it, and assures me it was only the heat of the house which caused him discomfort after the cold air out of doors. It may be only that, but I think we ought to make sure."
Again, and with that same becoming hint of deference, she turned to her niece.
"So I sent orders that Patch should drive at once to Stourmouth and fetch Dr. McCabe. I did not stop to consult you because it seemed best he should take out the horses before they were washed down and stabled."
"Yes—but I can go to him?" Damaris asked.
"Darling—of course. But I would try to follow his lead, if I were you—treat it all lightly, since he so wishes. Your father knows best in most things—and may know best in this. Please God it is so."
Left alone with Carteret.
"I am anxious—most cruelly anxious about my brother," she said.
While Damaris, sweeping across the hall and down the corridor in her sunshine silken dress, repeated:
"The ponies—the smugglers' ponies," a sob in her throat.