“Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can’t read because he’s blind.”
There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a headache.
“Dick’s blind!” said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied herself against a chair-back. “My Dick’s blind!”
“What?” The girl was on the sofa no longer.
“A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn’t written to me for six weeks.”
“Are you going to him?”
“I must think.”
“Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss his eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don’t go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to him at once. Go!”
Torpenhow’s neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of infinite patience as Maisie’s appeared bareheaded in the sunshine.
“I am coming,” said she, her eyes on the ground.