"Golly, that pretty nearly hits us all, doesn't it?" said Griffin apprehensively. "I'm not so sure about myself, now you mention it. Doris Leighton may be one ahead of me in this business. Fatty degeneration of the soul is a new one to me."
They were all rather serious for a silent moment, and then Patricia spoke. Her clear voice was rather low and timid, but her eyes were shining.
"Let's phone to her and tell her that we all hope Geraldine will soon be well," she said, looking at Elinor with loving confidence.
There was a murmur of assent and Elinor rose quickly.
"The very thing, Miss Pat," she agreed radiantly. "I'll look up the number for you."
But Patricia shrank from appearing too magnanimous.
"It's your affair, Norn," she demurred. "You ought to do the talking."
So Elinor went into the sitting-room where the telephone was, and in the intervals of their rather forced conversation, they could hear scraps of her kind questions and gentle answers. When she returned to the studio, her face was glowing.
"I'm so glad you thought of phoning, Miss Pat," she said, taking her plate and cup from Bruce and seating herself by Miss Jinny. "Doris was—well, I can't tell you what she said, but she certainly isn't as bad as we thought her. She's just wrapped up in Geraldine and she seems to think that this illness is a judgment on her for the prize study."
"Poor thing," exclaimed Griffin. "Did you tell her we all asked for her?"