"I told you a moment ago. You can go and see her when you have changed your things. I wish you would go away at once to your room and get into some other clothes. There are no end of people you ought to meet. How strange you look, Phil." "I want to know more of Sibyl." Here the husband caught the wife's dainty wrist and drew her a little aside. "No matter about other things at present," he said sternly. "How is Sibyl? Remember, I have heard no particulars; I have heard nothing since I got your cable. How is she? Is there much the matter?" "Well, I really don't think there is, but perhaps Lady Helen will tell you. Shall I send her to you? I really am so busy just now. You know I am selling, myself, at the principal stall. Oh, do go into the house, you naughty dear; do go to your own room and change your things! I expected you early this morning, and Watson has put out some of your wardrobe. Watson will attend on you if you will ring for him. You will find there is a special dressing room for you on the first floor. Go, dear, do." But Ogilvie now hold both her hands. His own were not too clean; they were soiled by the dust of his rapid journey. He gripped her wrists tightly. "_Where_ is the child?" he repeated again. "Don't look at me like that, you quite frighten me. The child, she is in her room; she is going on nicely." "But is she injured? Can she walk?" "What could you expect? She cannot walk yet, but she is getting better gradually--at least, I think so." "What you think is nothing, less than nothing. What do the doctors say?" As Ogilvie was speaking he drew his wife gradually but surely away from the fashionably dressed people and the big-wigs who were too polite to stare, but who were all the time devoured with curiosity. It began to be whispered in the crowd that Ogilvie had returned, and that his wife and he were looking at certain matters from different points of view. There were several men and women present, who, although they encouraged Mrs. Ogilvie to have the bazaar, nevertheless thought her a heartless woman, and these people now were rather rejoicing in Ogilvie's attitude. He did not look like a person who could be trifled with. He drew his wife toward the shrubbery. "I will see the child in a minute," he said; "nothing else matters. She is ill, unable to walk, lying down. I want to hear full particulars. If you will not tell them to me, I will send for the doctor. The question I wish answered is this, _what do the doctors say_?" Tears filled Mrs. Ogilvie's pretty, dark eyes. "Really, Phil, you are too cruel. After these weeks of anxiety, which only a mother can understand, you speak to me in that tone, just as if the dear little creature were nothing to me at all." "You can cry, Mildred, as much as you please, and you can talk all the sentimental stuff that best appeals to you, but answer my question now. What do the doctors say, and what doctors has she seen?"