"You may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "I know what that means—I'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' Oh yes, I quite understand."
He was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation.
"Geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said Vicky. "I wish I hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but I didn't like to say so to Elsa. I know you didn't mean ever to vex mamma, and I'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? Would you like me just to run and tell Elsa and Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot how dreadfully you'd like to see her just for a minute? If you just peeped in, you know, and said 'Good night, mamma; I am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. Shall I, Geoff?"
"No," he replied gruffly. "I want to ask nothing. And I'm not sure that I do want dreadfully to see her. Caring can't be all on one side."
Vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time.
"Oh, Geoff!" was all she could say. "Mamma not care for you!"
Her distress softened him a little.
"Don't you cry about it, Vic," he said. "I do believe you care for me, anyway. You always will, won't you, Vicky?"
"Of course I shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into Geoff's teacup. They were in the school-room by this time, and Vicky was at her usual post.
"And some day," pursued Geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, Vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and——"