Reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill.
"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. He had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"
"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"
Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterday about Maud," he said gently. "There's nothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.
She felt somehow comforted by Reggie's coming. He was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again.
Reggie felt it too. He stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said,
"If you knew where Gertrude would be this afternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll be so surprised to see me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically. She knew far, far more of those stories about Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed. Even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude's mind, Conway and Willie had confided to their mother that they wished Gertrude would not be quite so pleasant. She sighed a little as she looked into Reggie's bright, open face. Girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. Then she remembered that Reggie had asked her a question.
"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting. Come in, Reggie; she is at home this afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham, and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—I am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and I believe she went to the drawing-room to study."