"It is this dreadful London," thought Britta. "So hot and stifling—there's no fresh air for her. And all this going about to balls and parties and shows—no wonder she is tired out!"
But it was something more than mere fatigue that made Thelma's eyes look sometimes so anxious, so gravely meditative and earnest. One day she seemed so much abstracted and lost in painful musings that Britta's loving heart ached, and she watched her for some moments without venturing to say a word. At last she spoke out bravely—
"Fröken!"—she paused,—Thelma seemed not to hear her. "Fröken!—has anything vexed or grieved you today?"
Thelma started nervously. "Vexed me—grieved me?" she repeated. "No, Britta—why do you ask?"
"You look very tired, dear Fröken," continued Britta gently. "You are not as bright as you were when we first came to London."
Thelma's lips quivered. "I—I am not well, Britta," she murmured, and suddenly her self-control gave way, and she broke into tears. In an instant Britta was kneeling by her, coaxing and caressing her, and calling her by every endearing name she could think of, while she wisely forbore from asking any more questions. Presently her sobs grew calmer,—she rested her fair head against Britta's shoulder and smiled faintly. At that moment a light tap was heard outside, and a voice called—
"Thelma! Are you there?"
Britta opened the door, and Sir Philip entered hurriedly and smiling—but stopped short to survey his wife in dismay.
"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed distressfully. "Have you been crying?"
Here the discreet Britta retired.