From the open windows below came the languid sweetness of a nocturne by Chopin. Mrs. Fausset was playing her husband to sleep after dinner. Sure token of reconciliation between husband and wife.
The doctor came next morning. He appeared upon alternate days now, and looked at Mildred in a casual manner, after exhausting the local gossip with Mrs. Fausset. This morning he and Mrs. Fausset were particularly confidential before the patient was sent for.
“Admirable!” he exclaimed, when he had looked at her tongue and felt her pulse; “we are as nearly well as we can be. All we want now is a little sea-air to set us up for the winter. The great point, my dear madam”—to Mrs. Fausset—“is to avoid all risk of sequelæ. A fortnight at Brighton or Eastbourne will restore our little friend to perfect health.”
There were no difficulties in the way of such people as the Faussets, no question of ways and means. Bell was sent for, and despatched to Eastbourne by an afternoon train. She was to take lodgings in a perfect position, and of impeccable repute as to sanitation. Mildred was to follow next day, under convoy of Meta and the under-butler, a responsible person of thirty-five.
“Fay must go, too,” exclaimed Mildred; whereupon followed a tragic scene.
Fay was not to go to Eastbourne. No reasons were assigned for the decision. Mildred was to ride a donkey; she was to have a pony-carriage at her disposition; but she was to be without Fay for a whole fortnight. In a fortnight she would be able to come home again.
“How many days are there in a fortnight?” she asked piteously.
“Fourteen.”
“O Fay, fourteen days away from you!” she exclaimed, clinging with fond arms round Fay’s neck, and pulling down the dark head on a level with her own bright hair.