"Some might call him good-looking," was the cautious answer.
"You think I shouldn't, evidently?" Evidently.
"It is not the face itself. It is in the shape of it. A twist. I took him for mad, but he is not."
"How came you to know him for your sister's son?"
"Ah, my lady, how could I? For Maisie was still dead then, for me. I could know he was Mrs. Prichard's son, for he said so."
"I see. It was before. But you talk about him to her now?"
"She cannot talk of much else, when Ruth is away. She will talk of him to you, when she wakes.... Hush—I think Ruth is coming!" Gwen slipped the letter in her pocket, to be out of the way.
No change in her mother—that was Ruth's report. She had not stirred in her sleep. You could hardly hear her breathe. This was to show that you could hear her breathe, by listening. It covered any possible alarm about the nature of so moveless a sleep, without granting discussion of the point.
Gwen had told Tom Kettering to return shortly, but only for orders. Her own mind was quite made up—not to leave the old lady until alarms had died down. If the clouds cleared, she would think about it. Tom must drive back at once to the Towers; and if anyone was still out of bed whose concern it was to know, he might explain that she was not coming back at present. Or stop a minute!—she would write a short line to her father. Ruth and Granny Marrable lodged a formal protest. But how glad they were to have her there, on any terms!
She had really come prepared to stay the night; but until she could hear how the land lay had not disclosed her valise. Tom, returning for orders, deposited it in the front-room, and departed, leaving it to be carefully examined by the dog, who could not disguise his interest in leather.