”‘Her mind failing,’” repeated Lettice contemptuously. “How coarsely you express things, Nina! Whoever would say such a thing? As if mamma were an old woman in her dotage! What’s the matter? Surely you are not going to cry—for nothing!”
For Nina’s face had grown very red, and she fumbled about with her parasol in an uneasy manner. But she was not crying, and Lettice, watching her, saw another cause for the blush and the discomfort, in the person of a young man, who just then crossing the street raised his hat with a shy yet eager deference, which the most scrupulous of chaperones could not have objected to.
“That boy!” said Lettice under her breath. “And just now when I wanted to make Nina thoroughly sympathise with me! It is really detestable—one has no privacy here. We had better go back into the house,” she said aloud.
“Hush, Lettice; he will hear you!” exclaimed Nina, some stronger feeling overcoming even her awe of her sister. “He is going to speak to us.”
And before Lettice had time to reply, the young man came to a halt just below where they were standing.
“Is—I hope—excuse my interrupting you,” he began, for Lettice’s expression was not encouraging, to say the least. “I was so anxious to know if Mrs Morison is better to-day.”
“Thank you,” said Lettice, civilly but coldly. “Yes, on the whole I think she is rather better to-day.”
Nina, from under her parasol, darted on her sister a look half of reproach, half of surprise. “Better!” Mamma any better! How could Lettice say so? To her eyes it was very evident that she was daily growing worse. And she felt sure that Lettice saw it too. “She won’t allow it to herself,” she thought. “But I think it is better to own the truth. I would like Philip Dexter to know—I like him to be sorry for us.”
And there was a depth of sadness in her eyes that found its way straight to the young man’s heart, as, without having spoken a word, she bent her head in farewell when Mr Dexter turned to go.