Manisty, who had been poking at the ground with his stick, looked up.
Brooklyn made a step backward.
'Very ill,' he said, with a face of consternation. 'And nobody knew?'
'She would not let us know,' said Manisty slowly. Then he added, with the authority of the older man, the man in charge—'now we are doing all we can. We start on Friday and pick up a nurse at Genoa. When we get home, of course she will have the best advice. Very often she is wonderfully bright and like herself. Oh! we shall pull her round. But you mustn't tire her. Don't stay too long.'
They walked into the convent together, Brooklyn all impatience, Manisty moody and ill at ease.
'Reggie!—well met!' It was Eleanor's gayest voice, from the vine-leafed shadows of the loggia. Brooklyn sat down beside her, gazing at her with his troubled blue eyes. Manisty descended to the walled garden, and walked up and down there smoking, a prey to disagreeable thoughts.
After half an hour or so Reggie came down to the convent gate to look out for the ricketty diligence which had undertaken to bring his bag from Orvieto.
Here he was overtaken by Lucy Foster, who seemed to have hurried after him.
'How do you do, Mr. Brooklyn?' He turned sharply, and let her see a countenance singularly discomposed.
They looked at each other a moment in silence. He noted with amazement her growth in beauty, in expression. But the sadness of the mouth and eyes tortured him afresh.
'What is the matter with her?' he said abruptly, dropping her timidly offered hand.