The next afternoon he did go to Richard Latham’s. He was shown directly into the peaceful room where Anne Dallas and the poet were sitting.
“Do I interrupt work?” Kit asked, pausing in the doorway.
“No, indeed; all done for to-day,” said Richard. “Kit, have you bad news?” he added.
“Oh, your face says so!” exclaimed Anne; Richard had caught the note of strain in his voice.
Kit came in and dropped heavily into a chair.
“I don’t know; I suppose it is not anything portentous. They are waiting for the crisis, now; it’s near. Poor little girl!” He paused, and Richard patted him on the shoulder.
“We are all broken up here, too,” he said.
“But there is something else, some change?” Anne asked.
“She was conscious this morning and in the night,” said Kit. “She has been conscious a good deal, they say. She asked what day this was, and when they said Thursday, she asked if it was Corpus Christi? I don’t know what that means, but——”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it kept abroad, processions, and——” Richard began, but Kit interrupted him.