She sat on the bed by the foot-rail, and rested her throbbing head on her hand.
“Your little escapade has upset you, darling,” said Lady Blount, weakly; “but it was nothing very serious, after all. If John's furious when he hears of it, it 'll only be because he was not there to welcome you himself.”
“I 'm not afraid of John being furious, Auntie,” said Stella. “It 's not that at all. You don't understand.”
“I don't think I do, dear,” said poor Lady Blount. She sat down beside the girl and put a loving arm round her. “Tell me what it is.”
But this was more than Stella could do. To speak would be to accuse and reproach, and she could not accuse or reproach any of her dear ones. Yet she needed the comfort like any other young and suffering soul. She surrendered to the elder woman's caress, feeling very weary.
“Perhaps I 'm not as strong as I thought I was, Auntie,” she said.
The confession stirred all the mothering instincts in Lady Blount. With physical things she could grapple. She tended her with her thin, deft hands and persuaded her to lie down.
“My poor lamb, London is too much for you. Never mind. We 're going home to-morrow.”
“I shall never want to leave home again,” said Stella.
It was half-past one. Sir Oliver was lunching and spending the afternoon at his club. A tray was brought to Stella's bed, and Lady Blount pecked at a flustered woman's meal in the sitting-room.