"Jill? What's that child got to do with it?"
"Everything"—McTaggart frowned—"nurse her mother, help with the cooking, and sit up, besides, night after night. She can't go on—she's bound to break down—and nobody seems to care in the least." He saw a shade of anxiety settle on the thin face. ("It's all right"—he said to himself—"she's fond of her niece.") His courage rose. "That's why I've come to you, I feel so awfully sorry for Jill—and Mrs. Uniacke's no good—I really thought you ought to know."
"You did quite right. I'd no idea." Her grey eyes flashed as she spoke. "Mary's not fit to have children!"
The scorn of the unmarried sounded.
"I'm so relieved." McTaggart smiled. "I felt it was no business of mine and wondered how you would receive me. But now—since you're so kind—I want to make a certain suggestion. It seems they won't hear of a nurse——" the young man went a trifle red—"Of course—they must have a lot of expenses—education and all that, and I want to be allowed to help.
"As it happens I've been left ... rather a large fortune lately and I don't know what to do with the money—it's a fact, I assure you..." he hurried on—"and if you agree to it, I thought I'd see about a good trained nurse—for night work—to relieve Jill. We're such old friends——" his voice pleaded—"only you see she's awfully proud, so I thought if I might use your name Jill need never know about it. I suppose you'll think it awful cheek," boyishly he added the clause—"for a stranger to come and suggest this—but I've known Jill all my life."
There followed an embarrassing pause. He could feel the keen grey eyes upon him and looked away, his gaze fixed on a goblet of Bohemian glass with "Grüss!" inscribed in gilt upon it.
Over Miss Uniacke's wrinkled face a grim smile began to steal.
"Hm ... I see. You want to indulge in philanthropy—at the expense of my conscience?"
McTaggart, glancing up, caught a twinkle in her eyes.