"He saw her."
"Well?"
"He says she's all right. She'll be well if only she'll go out in the open air."
"It's what I've been dinning into her for the last three months. She doesn't want a doctor to tell her that."
He drew her into the study and closed the door. He was not angry. He had more than ever his air of wisdom and of patience.
"Look here, Gwenda," he said gravely. "I know what I'm doing. There's nothing in the world the matter with her. But she'll never be well as long as you keep on sending for young Rowcliffe."
But his daughter Gwendolen was not impressed. She knew what it meant—that air of wisdom and of patience.
Her unsubmissive silence roused his temper.
"I won't have him sent for—do you hear?"
And he made up his mind that he would go over to Morfe again and give young Rowcliffe a hint. It was to give him a hint that he had called on Monday.