"No, no—I am not ill.... I will tell you directly."
Moments passed that, to Gwen's impatience for speech she could neither frame nor utter, might have been hours. Old Maisie's growing wonderment was bringing back the look she had had over that mill-model. But she said nothing.
Gwen's voice came at last, audibly to herself, scarcely more. "I want you—I want you to tell me something...."
"What, my dear?... Oh—to tell you something! Yes—what is it?"
Was the moment at hand, at last? Gwen managed to raise her voice. "I want you to tell me this:—Has Mrs. Thrale ever told you her mother's name—I mean her aunt's—Granny Marrable's?"
"Her christened name?—her own name?"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Shall I tell it you?"
"Why not?... Oh, I am frightened to see you so white. My dear!"