"That depends upon one's point of view," said George, smiling. "She seemed as convinced as ever."
"Who sent Mrs. Allison to that place? Barham, I suppose. He always sends his patients there. They say he's in league with the hotel-keepers."
George stared. What was the matter with her? What made her throw out these jerky sentences with this short, hurried breath.
Suddenly Lady Tressady turned.
"George!"
"Yes, mother." He stepped nearer to her. She caught his sleeve.
"George "—there was something like a sob in her voice—"you were quite right. I am ill. There, don't talk about it. The doctors are all fools. And if you tell Letty anything about it, I'll never forgive you."
George put his arm round her, but was not, in truth, much disturbed. Lady Tressady's repertory, alas! had many rôles. He had known her play that of the invalid at least as effectively as any other.
"You are just overdone with London and the heat," he said. "I saw it at once. You ought to go away."
She looked up in his face.