"
He was silent.
"Is that what you told father?"
"Hasn't he said anything?"
"He hasn't said a word. And you went away without saying anything."
"There isn't much to say that you don't know----"
"I know why she was ill. You told me. But I don't know why she's
worse. She _was_ better. She was quite well. She was running about
doing things and looking so pretty--only the other day. And look at
her now."
"It's like that," said Rowcliffe. "It comes and goes."
He said it quietly. But the blood rose into his face and forehead in a
painful flush.
"But why? Why?" she persisted. "It's so horribly sudden."
"It's like that, too," said Rowcliffe.
"If it's like that now what is it going to be? How is it going to end?
That's what you _won't_ tell me."
"It's difficult----" he began.
"I don't care how difficult it is or how you hate it. You've got to."
All he said to that was "You're very fond of her?"
Her upper lip trembled. "Yes. But I don't think I knew it until now."
"That's what makes it difficult."
"My not knowing it?"
"No. Your being so fond of her."
"Isn't that just the reason why I ought to know?"
"Yes. I think it is. Only----"
She held him to it.
"Is she going to die?"
"I don't say she's _going_ to die. But--in the state she's in--she
_might_ get anything and die of it if something isn't done to make her
happy."
"Happy----"
"I mean of course--to get her married.
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