“Do you think all that stuff about Gregg could have upset her?” asked Fayre, his conscience smiting him. “I could kick myself for being such a fool. After all, she’s entirely dependent on him while she’s here.”
Cynthia laid a reassuring hand on his arm.
“Nonsense, Uncle Fayre! Sybil’s got much too much sense for that. You’re not to blame. She gets attacks like this and they’ve been getting worse, her maid says. Probably the dinner-party last night knocked her up. It was pretty awful, according to Eve.”
Gregg arrived sooner than they had dared hope. He was upstairs for a long time and Fayre hung about miserably, wishing most heartily that the Staveleys would return from church, for Eve Staveley was one of those cheerfully competent people who are invaluable in a case of illness. He waylaid Gregg on his way out.
“She’ll do,” was his verdict in answer to Fayre’s inquiry. “But she won’t weather many more attacks like this. Each one is a fresh drain on her vitality. Blast that dinner-party!”
“You think that did it?”
“Sure. A stuffy dining-room and the effort of talking to a lot of stodgy people would be quite enough.” Fayre looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Is she going to get any stronger?” he asked. “I’m one of the oldest friends they’ve got and I’d like to know how things really are.”
Gregg shrugged his shoulders.
“The machine’s worn out,” he said. “We can patch it, of course, but every time we do, it becomes a bit weaker. Heart’s always the devil, you know. I wish I could speak differently,” he went on with a touch of real feeling in his voice. “She’s one of the best and pluckiest patients I’ve ever had.”