"Ah," came the reply, "but you must be cautious, miss. Boys will be boys; and," the sound tailed away, "men, men." I heard the door open and close, and paused, with hands still lifted to my hair, prickling cold all over at this strange behaviour. What could I have been found out in now?
Then a voice sounded seemingly out of nowhere. "What I was going to say, miss, is—A letter's come."
With that I drew aside the curtain. The explanation was simple. Having let Henry out of my room, in which he was never at ease, Mrs Bowater was still standing, like a figure in waxwork, in front of her chiffonier, her eyes fixed on the window. They then wheeled on me. "Mr Bowater," she said.
I was conscious of an inexpressible relief and of the profoundest interest. I glanced at the great portrait. "Mr Bowater?" I repeated.
"Yes," she replied. "Buenos Ayres. He's broken a leg; and so's fixed there for the time being."
"Oh, Mrs Bowater," I said, "I am sorry. And how terribly sudden."
"Believe me, my young friend," she replied musingly, "it's never in my experience what's unprepared for that finds us least expecting it. Not that it was actually his leg was in my mind."
What was chiefly in my selfish mind was the happy conviction that I had better not give her Fanny's letter just then.
"I do hope he's not in great pain," was all I found to say.
She continued to muse at me in her queer, sightless fashion, almost as if she were looking for help.