“I suppose your father informed you,” she continued, settling herself in the Dominé’s chair, “that I have been exceedingly unwell since you left. Day after day I have dragged myself down-stairs, so as not to let him sit down to his dinner alone, but my nights were too terrible to speak of.” She paused, that Ursula might speak of them.
“I’m so sorry,” said Ursula, without any accent at all.
“Last night, for instance, I was in agony from twelve to three—in agony. I don’t know what I should have done without my vegetable electricity. I took it at three, and the pain vanished immediately.”
“Why didn’t you take it at once?” asked Ursula.
“Ursula, you have not the slightest comprehension of medicines. Fortunate child, it is your lack of experience. Medicines never act if taken at once.”
The Dominé had basely deserted his own fortress.
“Ursula, my dear,” said Miss Mopius, sitting up with quite unusual energy, “no wonder my health has suffered. Something very important has happened since you went away.”
“Really?” asked Ursula, wondering what the maid-of-all-work had broken.
“Yes, but it’s no use speaking of it to your father. Ursula, Otto van Helmont comes here every evening. Since you left, mind you. Now, I ask, what can that mean?”
“He had only four evenings before I left,” replied Ursula, with some spirit, “one of them was free, and he came.”