“That’s true,” she said heavily.
“I’ve got an idea—a good idea, too! I’ll be your mediator with the outraged Lightfoot. I’ll tell her you had to go away—that it was really urgent. And then I’ll break to her that a new help is coming—a good worker, too, much more experienced than poor little Bet Chart is ever likely to be. A tall, dark, magnificent-looking girl, with a will of her own, mind you. So then Lucy will be sure, I won’t say of a welcome—but of a greeting.”
She leaned down and began to shake up his pillows.
“Give Mrs. Lightfoot her cup of tea before you steal away,” he said.
And as he caught a look of surprise in her face:
“Mrs. Lightfoot is my only friend. If it wasn’t that she is such a good, kindly-natured human creature, God knows what I should have done with myself. Well, good-bye, good luck, and thank you for what you’re going to do for me. You won’t be sorry, Miss Bower, that you’ve obliged a dying man.”
“Sorry?” she said. “No, indeed, Mr. Cheale, I shall always be very glad we’ve had this talk.”
“I hope I shall,” he said doubtfully, and helplessly began to cough.
She stood quietly by his side till the painful paroxysm was over, and then:
“Good-bye,” she said, torn between a feeling of intense pity and almost equally intense repulsion.