"No, dear, you must not think of it: you mustn't ask to go home."
"I thought not," said Sissy.
Mrs. Middleton asked her if she felt much pain.
"I don't know," she said, and closed her eyes.
Later, Henry Hardwicke sent in a message, and the old lady came out to speak to him. He was standing by an open casement in the passage, looking out at the sunset through the orchard boughs. "What is it, Harry?" she said.
He started and turned round: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Middleton, but I thought in case you wanted to send any telegrams—if—if—I mean I thought you might want to send some, and there is not very much time."
She put her hand to her head. "I ought to, oughtn't I?" she said. "Who should be sent for?"
"Mr. Hammond?" Hardwicke questioned doubtfully.
Something like relief or pleasure lighted her sad eyes: "Yes, yes! send for Godfrey Hammond. He will come." She was about to leave him, but the young fellow stepped forward: "Mrs. Middleton"—was it the clear red light from the window that suddenly flushed his face?—"Mrs. Middleton, shall I send for Mr. Percival Thorne?"
She stopped, looking strangely at him: something in his voice surprised her. "For Percival?" she said.