“Wait just one moment, Gerald,” she said. “I want to get something.”
She left the room and immediately the boy bent forward.
“Don’t go out to-night, Bertha. I must see you again.”
Before Bertha could reply, Miss Ley called from the hall.
“Good-bye,” said Gerald, aloud.
“Good-bye, I hope you’ll have a nice journey.”
“Here’s a little present for you, Gerald,” said Miss Ley, when he was outside. “You’re dreadfully extravagant, and as that’s the only virtue you have, I feel I ought to encourage it. And if you want money at any time, I can always scrape together a few guineas, you know.”
She put into his hand two fifty-pound notes and then, as if she were ashamed of herself, bundled him out of doors. She went to her room; and having rather seriously inconvenienced herself for the next six months, for an entirely unworthy object, she began to feel remarkably pleased. In an hour Miss Ley returned to the drawing-room to wait for Bertha, who presently came in, dressed—but ghastly pale.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, I simply can’t come to-night. I’ve got a racking headache; I can scarcely see. You must tell them that I’m sorry, but I’m too ill.”
She sank on a chair and put her hand to her forehead, groaning with pain. Miss Ley lifted her eyebrows; the affair was evidently more serious that she thought. However, the danger now was over; it would ease Bertha to stay at home and cry it out. She thought it brave of her even to have dressed.