Propped on her pillows, with her slender arms stretched out before her
on the counterpane, she waited.
Her sullenness was gone. She had nothing but sweetness for Mary and
for Essy. Even to her father she was sweet. She could afford it. Her
instinct was now sure. From time to time a smile flickered on her
small face like a light almost of triumph.
* * * * *
The Vicar and Miss Cartaret were out when Rowcliffe called at the
Vicarage, but Miss Gwendolen was in if he would like to see her.
He waited in the crowded shabby gray and amber drawing-room with the
Erard in the corner, and it was there that she came to him.
He said he had only called to ask after her sister, as he had heard in
the village that she was not so well.
"I'm afraid she isn't."
"May I see her? I don't mean professionally--just for a talk."
The formula came easily. He had used it hundreds of times in the
houses of parsons and of clerks and of little shopkeepers, to whom
bills were nightmares.
She took him upstairs.
On the landing she turned to him.
"She doesn't _look_ worse. She looks better."
"All right. She won't deceive me."
She did look better, better than he could have believed. There was a
faint opaline dawn of color in her face.
Heaven only knew what he talked about, but he talked; for over a
quarter of an hour he kept it up.
And when he rose to go he said, "You're not worse.
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