‘One moment, Ada,’ she said closing the door. ‘Some more medicine—what medicine? Quick! She mustn’t suspect.’
‘“What medicine?”’ repeated Lawford stolidly.
‘Oh, vexing, vexing; don’t you see we must send her out? Don’t you see? What was it you sent to Critchett’s for last night? Tell him that’s gone: we want more of that.’
Lawford stared heavily. Oh, yes, yes,’ he said thickly, ‘more of that....’
Sheila, with a shrug of extreme distaste and vexation, hastily opened the door. ‘Dr Ferguson wants a further supply of the drug which Mr Critchett made up for Mr Lawford yesterday evening. You had better go at once, Ada, and please make as much haste as you possibly can.’
‘I say, I say,’ began Lawford; but it was too late, the door was shut.
‘How I detest this wretched falsehood and subterfuge. What could have induced you....?’
‘Yes,’ said her husband, ‘what! I think I’ll be getting to bed again, Sheila; I forgot I had been ill. And now I do really feel very tired. But I should like to feel—in spite of this hideous—I should like to feel we are friends, Sheila.’
Sheila almost imperceptibly shuddered, crossed the room, and faced the still, almost lifeless mask. ‘I spoke,’ she said, in a low, cold, difficult voice—‘I spoke in a temper this morning. You must try to understand what a shock it has been to me. Now, I own it frankly, I know you are—Arthur. But God only knows how it frightens me, and—and—horrifies me.’ She shut her eyes beneath her veil. They waited on in silence a while.
‘Poor boy!’ she said at last, lightly touching the loose sleeve; ‘be brave; it will all come right, soon. Meanwhile, for Alice’s sake, if not for mine, don’t give way to—to caprices, and all that. Keep quietly here, Arthur. And—and forgive my impatience.’