She thanked him simply. Then, looking up, she saw Fanny’s flushed face as she bent over her table. Diane sat down beside her.
“Mr. Faunce brought me a copy of his diary,” she explained, “and I—can’t read it yet!”
The other girl put out her hand involuntarily, and Diane clasped it under the table. They looked at each other, and Fanny saw that Diane’s eyes were full of tears. She withdrew her fingers and turned to Faunce with a gay little smile.
“I wonder if you’ll drink that cup of tea now?” she said lightly. “I’ve made another hot one. There are three cold ones standing around in different localities—one on the mantel, one on the cabinet, and the third somewhere beside the fender—I saw you put it there. Mr. Faunce is devoted to tea, Diane!”
They all laughed. Fanny bravely opened her little tea-caddy and began to measure out a fresh supply. She had a feeling that, having reached the last ditch, she was prepared to defend it with the courage of despair.
VII
It was toward the end of the following month, when the winter had set in, that Judge Herford was seized with one of his bad attacks of lumbago.
Dr. Gerry, summoned by Diane, found his patient in the library. The judge’s figure, which had the habit of appearing so massive when seated, still retained its large dignity of pose, for the deep cushions of his chair concealed the humiliating twist which the disease had not failed to inflict on its victim’s aristocratic muscles; but his temper, never of an amiable turn, had gained nothing under the visitation. He did not hesitate to scowl openly as his old friend appeared carrying, as usual, the small black bag with which the rural practitioner arms himself for the worst emergencies.
“No pills for me!” he growled. “I’ve got a hot-water bag and a plaster—enough for any poor devil. I suppose Diane sent for you!”
“Diane has more sense than you have,” replied the doctor, taking off his greatcoat with the utmost composure.