“Never mind! You did your best, and it’s nobody’s fault that he turned out such a Diogenes. The governor has been awfully decent since he came up, and I don’t despair of getting the time extended. He is much more amenable, apart from Agnes, and I fancy the Chieftain puts in a good word for me now and then—not on the score of literature, of course—but after they have been talking together, the governor always seems to look upon me with more—more respect, don’t you know, and less as if I were a hopeless failure, of whom he was more or less ashamed. That’s a gain in itself, isn’t it?”
“’Um!” assented Margot vaguely. “I suppose they drive over to catch the evening express? Did he—they—say anything about me?”
Ron started in surprise.
“My dear girl, we have talked of nothing else but you, for the last week! Pulse, temperature, sleep; sleep, temperature, pulse; every hour the same old tale. You have given us all a rare old fright; but thank goodness you are on the mend at last. The doctor says it is only a matter of time.”
“Did—they—send any message?”
“No! Edie said you were not to be excited. Awfully sorry to miss saying good-bye, and that sort of thing, but hope to meet you another day in town.”
Margot shut her eyes, and the line of curling lashes looked astonishingly black against her cheek.
“I see. Very kind! I’m—tired, Ron. I can’t talk any more.”
Ron rose from his seat with, it must be confessed, a sigh of relief. He was ill at ease in the atmosphere of the sick-room, and hardly recognised his jaunty, self-confident companion in this wan and languid invalid. He dropped a light kiss on Margot’s forehead, and hurried downstairs, to be encountered on the threshold of the inn by George Elgood, who for once seemed anxious to enter into conversation.
“You have been to see your sister. Did she—er—was she well enough to send any message before we go?”