Joan turned to him swiftly. "I'm so sorry," she faltered. "I had no idea; and the other night you were rolling the grass. Why didn't you speak of it before?"
Her anxiety was so genuine that Mr. Vyner had the grace to feel a little bit ashamed of himself.
"When I say that my heart is affected, I don't mean in the way of—of disease," he murmured.
"Is it weak?" inquired the girl.
Mr. Vyner shook his head.
"Well, what is the matter with it?"
Mr. Vyner sighed. "I don't know," he said, slowly. "It is not of long standing; I only noticed it a little while ago. The first time I had an attack I was sitting in my office—working. Let me see. I think it was the day you came in there to see your father. Yes, I am sure it was."
Miss Hartley walked on, looking straight before her.
"Since then," pursued Mr. Vyner, in the mournful tones suited to the subject, "it has got gradually worse. Sometimes it is in my mouth; sometimes—if I feel that I have offended anybody—it is in my boots."
Miss Hartley paid no heed.