"At your service," Scarlett answered promptly. He had a bit of paper before him, and was pencilling an initial letter to be embroidered on Barbara's handkerchiefs.
"Adrian, did you hear that Mr. Harding—you know whom I mean—was ill?"
"Yes, I did hear something about it." He put his head on one side and looked critically at his work. "Is it anything serious?"
"Yes," said Barbara. "I'm afraid it is."
"Poor fellow! I'm very sorry. How the days do shorten, don't they?"
"Yes," said Barbara again. "They spoke as if he were going to—die."
"Really? I'm sorry for that. It is strange," Adrian continued, putting in a stroke very delicately, "but one of the Wilton girls used always to say he looked like it. I think it was Molly."
Barbara sighed but did not speak.
"Let's see," said Adrian, "he left the Robinsons—what happened? Didn't the boy get drowned?"
"No!" scornfully, "he fell into the water, but somebody fished him out."