Yesterday Mrs. Bell had been refused admittance because of an indisposition that had overtaken Miss Verinder. This morning, being out earlier than was customary, she had come to bring the grapes and to inquire after the state of her cherished invalid. Naturally she was now amazed to find Miss Verinder up and about, and, as she said at once, “looking better than I’ve seen you for years.”
Miss Verinder said that she was indeed quite well again. Her slight illness had entirely passed off.
Then Mrs. Bell noticed the breakfast table, so nicely prepared, here, in the drawing-room, with silver dishes and cups and plates for at least two people—yes, with two chairs, one on each side of it.
Miss Verinder explained that she had a friend staying with her.
“Now that’s very wrong of you,” said Mrs. Bell in good-natured reproof. “You have struggled up to entertain your friend when you ought to have remained in bed. I can see now that you are not at all well, really. You are feverish, I believe—yes, feverish and shaky. Why did you allow her to come at such a time? Why didn’t you put her off? You should not have studied her convenience. Who is she? Do I know her?”
Miss Verinder said “No.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Mrs. Bell, going. Then she paused, one of her usual kindly ideas having come into her mind. “Listen, dear. If your friend is on your nerves—you didn’t mention her name—send her round to me. I’ll take her off your hands for the day.”
“You are too good, dear Mrs. Bell. But really I wouldn’t think of it.”
Miss Verinder saw her safely out of the hall, and bolted the door behind her—that door at the top of the stairs that had been left open in such a reckless, dangerous, unheard-of fashion by Louisa, merely because it was early in the morning with nobody about.