He shook his head, but did not answer.
'It cannot be anything very wrong, but we must look it in the face, Roy, whatever it is. Perhaps your father or Richard could help you better than I could, or even—' she hesitated slightly—'Dr. Heriot.'
Roy started convulsively.
'He! don't mention his name. I hate—I hate him,' clenching his hand, his white artist hand, as he spoke.
Mildred recoiled. Was he sane? had he been ill and they had not known it? His fevered aspect, the restless brilliancy of his eyes, his incoherence, filled her with dismay.
'Roy, you frighten me,' she said, faintly. 'I believe you are ill, dear—that you do not know what you are saying;' but he laughed a strange, bitter laugh.
'Ill! I wish I were; I vow I should be glad to have done with it. The life I have been leading for the last six weeks has been almost unbearable. Do you recollect you once told me that I should take trouble badly, that I was a moral coward and should give in sooner than other men? Well, you were a true prophet, Aunt Milly.'
'Dear Roy, I am trying to be patient, but do you know, you are torturing me with this suspense.'
He laughed again, and patted her hand half-kindly, half-carelessly.
'You need not look so alarmed, mother Milly,' his pet name for her; 'I have not forged a cheque, or put my name to a bill, or got into any youthful scrape. The trouble is none of my making. I am only a coward, and can't face it as Dick would if he were in my place, and so I thought I would come and have a look at you all before I went away for a long, long time. I was pretty near you all the time you were at dinner, and heard all Dad's stories. It is laughable, isn't it, Aunt Milly?' but the poor lad's face contracted with a look of hopeless misery as he spoke.