“My poor little darling,” said the old man tenderly, “we did it all for the best.”
She stood by him in silence for a long time, while he petted her hand. At last she gathered strength.
“Tell him,” she said, “that it was all a mistake—that he acted nobly and generously and delicately—but that I smiled when I heard it. Tell him that I smiled, won't you, dear professor? See, I am smiling—quite gaily, like the Felicia you spoil. And now,”—she withdrew her hand gently—“I am going to telegraph to him. He and I together will soon bring you round again—but I alone am not sufficient.”
She administered a few feminine touches to the things on the table beside him, and went upon her self-imposed errand.
“I should like you to return as quickly as possible.
“Chetwynd.”
She composed the wording of the telegram on her way to the office. It kept her from thinking of other things.
“There,” she said to herself as she wrote.
“That will not alarm him.”
Meanwhile the invalid was sorely puzzled.