Meanwhile Letty seemed to be wandering aimlessly about the room. Marcella went up to her.
"Your hat is here, on this chair. I have a shawl in the carriage. Won't you come at once, and leave word to your maid to bring after you what you want? Then I can go on, if you wish it, and send your telegram to Sir George."
"But you wanted him to do something?" said Letty, looking at her uncertainly.
"Mothers come first, I think!" said Marcella, with a smile of wonder.
"It is best to write it before we go. Will you tell me what to say?"
She went to the writing-table, and had to write the telegram with small help from Letty, who in her dazed, miserable soul was still fighting some demonic resistance or other to the step asked of her. Instinctively and gradually, however, Marcella took command of her. A few quiet words to Justine sent her to make arrangements with Grier. Then Letty found a cloak that had been sent for being drawn round her shoulders, and was coaxed to put on her hat. In another minute she was in the Maxwells' brougham, with her hand clasped in Marcella's.
"They will want me to sit up," she said, dashing an irrelevant tear from her eyes, as they drove away. "I am so tired—and I hate illness!"
"Very likely they won't let you see her to-night. But you will be there if the illness comes on again. You would feel it terribly if—if she died all alone, with Sir George away."
"Died!" Letty repeated, half angrily. "But that would be so horrible—what could I do?"
Marcella looked at her with a strange smile.
"Only be kind, only forget everything but her!"