Herold turned and looked out of the window. Presently he said:
“She 's in the garden. I 'll go and talk to her, if she will let me.”
“Do, Walter dear. Try to make her speak. It's that awful silence that we can't bear.”
“She has always been devilish fond of you,” said Sir Oliver.
Herold went out and came upon her, escorted by Constable, in a path bordered on each side by Canterbury bells and fox-gloves and sweet-william. She drew herself up as he approached, and looked at him like some wraith or White Lady caught in the daylight, with no gleam of welcome in her glance. The old dog, however, pushed by her to greet Herold, whom he held in vast approbation. Then, aware of being relieved from duty, he wandered down the path, where he lay down and, like a kindly elder, suffered the frisky impudence of a stray kitten of the household.
“I suppose they 've sent for you because they think I am ill,” Stella began suspiciously.
“You are ill, dearest,” he replied in a quiet voice, “and it's causing us all very deep grief.”
“I'm not ill,” she retorted. “But every one's worrying me. I wish you would tell them to leave me alone.”
He took a nerveless, unresponsive hand and put it to his lips. “Stellamaris, Stella darling, don't you know how we all love you? How we would give everything, life itself, to make you happy?”
She withdrew her hand. “Don't talk of happiness. It's a delusion.”