“No good to herself—and no good to anybody else, poor soul!”
Dr. Maclean was uttering his thoughts aloud, as even the most discreet of physicians will sometimes do when with an intimate acquaintance. He was speaking of his patient, Mrs. Garlett, and addressing Agatha Cheale.
There were people in Grendon who envied Agatha Cheale her position as practical mistress of the charming old house. She was known to be distantly related to its master, Harry Garlett, and that made her position there less that of a dependent than it might have been. No one else used the pretty little sitting room where she and the doctor were now standing. But Dr. Maclean—shrewd Scot that he was—knew that Agatha Cheale was not to be envied, and that her job was both a difficult and a thankless one.
As he uttered his thoughts aloud, his kindly eyes became focussed on the woman before him. She was slight and dark, her abundant, wavy hair cut almost as short as a boy’s. This morning the intensely bright eyes which were the most arresting feature of her face, and the only one she had in common with her fair-haired brother, had dark pouches under them.
Dr. Maclean told himself that she had made a mistake in giving up the busy, useful, interesting life of secretary to the boss of a London trading company.
He asked suddenly: “When are you going to have your holiday?”
“I don’t know that I shall take a holiday.” She looked at him with a touch of tragic intensity. “I’m all right, really—though I don’t sleep as well as I might.”
“Don’t be angry with me for asking you a straight question.”
A wave of colour flooded her pale face. “I won’t promise to answer it!”
“Why do you go on with this thankless job?” he said earnestly. “Within a week or two at most I could find a competent nurse who could manage Mrs. Garlett. Why should you waste your life over that cantankerous, disagreeable woman?”