“Aunt,” he said, hesitatingly, “I think it is getting rather late—that is to say, if you are still thinking of a drive.”
“I was just thinking so myself, Anselm. Just you find out, my dear boy, if the carriage has come; it was to follow us here, you know, and I shall be ready in a moment.”
The boy turned away to do as she asked.
“That is my other nephew—Anselm Brooke,” she explained to Mr Cheviott. “Basil you know?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alys’s brother, with evident interest. “How is he, poor fellow? I was just going to ask you. Better, I hope?”
Mrs Brabazon shook her head, and the tears filled her eyes.
“There will be no real ‘better’ for him, I feel sure,” she said, sadly. “Yet my brother will not believe it, or rather persists in saying he does not. I can understand it; I remember how obstinately incredulous I was when Colonel Brabazon’s illness became hopeless. But it is sad, is it not? You remember what a fine young fellow Basil was only last year?”
“Yes,” said Mr Cheviott, kindly. “It is very sad.”
“And poor Anselm, it is really piteous to see his devotion to Basil. He has always looked up to him as to a sort of superior being, and indeed Basil has been treated as such by us all. Anselm has always been so delicate and backward—a frail staff to lean upon, but my mind misgives me that before long his father will have no other.”
“Do the doctors think as you do?”