“Jilian ill?”
Wilson nodded and exercised his facial muscles in the production of a reassuring smile.
“Miss Hardacre caught the small-pox, sir,” he explained, “but she is facing it famously, and Stott declares her to be out of danger. Let me assure you, Richard, that there is no need for you to distress yourself about the lady. Stott forbade me to mention her illness to you until he felt convinced that she would recover.”
Jeffray leaned back in his chair with a sigh, frowned, and stared fixedly out of the window.
“I must have given it to her, Dick,” he said.
Wilson shut the book up with a snap.
“Nonsense!” he retorted. “Why imagine such a thing? Nothing is to be gained by saddling one’s self with hypothetical responsibilities.”
The sensitive lines about Jeffray’s mouth had deepened, and there was a strained look about his eyes. Wilson, who was watching him affectionately, misread the whole meaning of the mood. He assumed Richard to be in love with Miss Jilian, and magnified his friend’s distress like the warm-hearted fellow that he was.
“Dick.”
“Well, sir?”