'Well, have they come?'
'Oh, yes, sir.' And Mrs. Simpson gave a rapid, sotto voce account of the visitors' arrival, their lunch, Mrs. Sarratt's sad looks—'poor little lady!'—and much else.
Sir William stepped in.
'Are they at home?'
Mrs. Simpson shook her head.
'They went out after lunch, Sir William, and I have not heard them come in.'
Which, of course, was a mistake on the part of Mrs. Simpson, who, hearing the front door close half an hour after luncheon and no subsequent movement in the flat, had supposed that the sisters had gone out together.
'All right. I'll wait for them. I want to see Mrs. Sarratt before I start. You may get me a cup of tea, if you like.'
Mrs. Simpson disappeared with alacrity, and Farrell crossed the hall to the drawing-room. He turned on the light as he opened the door, and was at once aware of Nelly's slight form on the sofa. She did not move, and something in her attitude—some rigidity that he fancied—alarmed him. He took a few steps, and then saw that there was no cause for alarm. She was only asleep, poor child, profoundly, pathetically asleep. Her utter unconsciousness, the delicate hand and arm lying over the edge of the sofa, and the gleam of her white forehead under its muffling cloud of hair, moved him strangely. He retreated as quietly as he could, and almost ran into Mrs. Simpson bringing a tray. He beckoned her into a small room which he used as his own den. But he had hardly explained the situation, before there were sounds in the drawing-room, and Nelly opened the door, which he had closed behind him. He had forgotten to turn out the light, and its glare had awakened her.
'Oh, Sir William—' she said, in bewilderment—'Did you come in just now?'