The door of Lady Harrison's room was slightly open as the two reached it. They were barely inside the chamber, when Jean, with an exclamation thrust the broth and crackers down on a side-table and rushed over to the bed.
Daisy, following quickly, saw the Scotswoman, after glancing closely at the half-open eyes and laying her ear to the gaunt sunken chest, hastily remove the pillows from under Lady Martha Harrison's head, lay the scalp levelly on the mattress, and press down the eyelids with her fingers.
"Ey, puir, puir leddy," Jean, keeping finger and thumb on the dead eyelids, turned toward Daisy with two tear-balls bowling down the rugged field of her face; "she's gone, she's gone. Ey, gone off all her lone—died as she lived, bairnie—while we're crackin' awa careless-like down in yon kitchen. Stane deid, an' nigh stark against the layin'-oot."
CHAPTER XVII. A Raincloud.
"When a chap has a bit of a brain," said a voice, speaking from behind a crinkled newspaper that was doing temporary service as a fan, "and a habit of seeing rather far into things, if you know what I mean—it's such a jolly nuisance that he can't get it before the public without writing it down. Isn't it, rather, don't you think, Lady Ware?"
"I suppose it rather must be, kind of," said Daisy, who, in a smart white skirt and blouse, and canvas shoes, occupied the other end of the tennis-court bench on the Wares' lawn, "but you should worry about that, Arthur. The public has enough books to read anyway."
"Not of the kind I should write, they haven't," declared Lord Arthur Milcourt, raising toward a green bough above them the ingenuous face of twenty-one; "I say, can you type a bit?"
"What?" Daisy demanded, wrinkling her brows at the speaker in a comical way; "oh, you mean, run a typewriter. No."