“No,” I said. “I don’t know much. Only it’s an old lady who’s Evey’s godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn’t this year.”
Papa looked grave.
“I wonder,” he said, consideringly, “if that is what’s wrong. Whyte has an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps—but I mustn’t gossip about my friends’ concerns,” he added more lightly, “though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so.”
“I am sure no one could ever accuse you of gossiping, Tom,” said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa’s or my defence.
“No one has done so, my dear, except my own self. Qui s’excuse, s’accuse, you know.”
And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day’s work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me.
I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it was so miserable.
It was about three o’clock only; I was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.
“Connie,” I heard, “Connie, I want you at once.”