Grace went downstairs again.
As has been already stated her knowledge of mortal, physical, or deep mental sickness was not large; and if her knowledge of the latter had been, she might well have felt puzzled how to deal with Nettie.
After her breakfast she sat down for a few minutes to think, and whilst she was deep in meditation Susan entered.
“The mistress would take nothing, then,” she remarked, looking at the tray Grace had carried all unavailingly to Mrs. Brady.
“No.”
“I thought you wouldn’t get her to eat. I have tried her hard enough, I can tell you. You don’t seem to have been hungry yourself,” she went on, glancing at the dish of bacon swimming in grease and the new-laid eggs that, poached in fat, floated in company with the unsavoury-looking slices.
“I was not,” answered Miss Moffat.
“It is not a heartsome place to come to, you’re thinking, likely,” suggested the woman.
“I was thinking what I could do for Mrs. Brady,” Grace replied. “She ought to have something. Is there any wine in the house?”
“There is whisky,” was the answer.