“Oh, Frogmore,” cried the lady, “how is Mary? I could not rest when I heard how ill she was till I had come over to see for myself.”
“I do not know,” said Lord Frogmore stiffly, “how ill you may have heard she was: but I don’t wonder that you should wish to see for yourself.”
“No: can you wonder? We have been like sisters almost all our lives.”
Though Letitia quaked at the old lord’s tone, she felt that it was the wisest way to ignore all offence.
“Sisters, if all tales are true, are not always the best of friends,” said Lord Frogmore. “Familiarity interferes with the natural bounds of good breeding. I think, Mrs. John, that I must ask you not to go any further, or at least not to insist on seeing Lady Frogmore.”
“Is she so very bad?” said Letitia in a thrilling whisper.
“No,” he said with irritation. “I did not say she was very bad. I said I could not admit visitors who, perhaps, might forget what is due to a delicate and sensitive woman.”
“I did not know,” said Letitia with an injured air, “that I was so little worthy of confidence. I am very sorry that Mary is so ill; so is John. We both felt we could not rest without knowing personally how much or how little of what we hear is true.”
“And what do you hear?” Lord Frogmore, though he felt it his duty to defend his wife, was not willingly ungracious, and felt it of all things in the world the most difficult to shut his door in anyone’s face. His courage failed him when Letitia put forth so reasonable a plea—
“Oh, Frogmore,” said Mrs. John, “what is the use of questioning and cross-questioning? Tell me how dear Mary is; that is all I want to know.”