Fulvia could not speak for a moment. A wild hope sprang up, and her heart beat faster, faster, in thick throbs, so hard and loud that she thought Daisy must surely hear. How foolish! How absurd! She, who prided herself on being always equable and composed—she to be palpitating like this at the words of a mere child, which might mean absolutely nothing! And yet—yet—what if she had misunderstood matters the evening before? Could it be possible? Had she made too much of a word, a look? Had Nigel no such feeling for Ethel as she had taken for granted? After all, how little had passed between them! How easily Nigel might have misunderstood her thought, and she might have misread his! "Anice hates being lectured, you know," Daisy went on. "But I don't mind it—at least, not from some people; not from dear old Nigel. Well, I don't mean to tell you one scrap more, because he said I mustn't. But, really and truly, I never meant to let you do too much. It always seemed natural that you should do things. Why didn't you ever tell me?" Daisy ran away, not waiting for an answer. And Fulvia sat in a dream, hardly thinking, only letting herself listen to a whisper of hope. What if—after all—? She was trembling with the sudden joy—unnerved—till suddenly Nigel entered the room; and then Fulvia was calm. "Fulvia going in for blind man's holiday! That is something new." "Daisy has been here chattering, making me waste my time; quite in despair at your absence." "I didn't intend to be so long. One can't always help it. Everybody expects to hear everything—" apologetically. "And then—" "Yes?" Fulvia said, looking up. She noted something of trouble, and asked, "Did you see Ethel and Malcolm?" "No; only Mrs. Elvey." "Disappointing for you." "Yes. Fulvia—" Now it was coming. Would he confess to her his love for Ethel?—Ask for help? He glanced round at the door to see if anybody might be there to hear. He had something confidential to say evidently. The pause he made occupied a mere fraction of a second, but Fulvia had time for distinct thought and conjecture, and her heart sank. "Fulvia, have you thought my father ill lately?" Then the troubled look was not for Ethel. He was only anxious about Mr. Browning, and in his anxiety, he turned to Fulvia. The throbbing came back, all over her, from head to foot; yet it was in her most natural voice that she answered— "Padre ill! No. He is nervous about himself, and I fancy he has worries." "Mr. Carden-Cox spoke to me. He seems to have a notion that things are not right." "Mr. Carden-Cox! Why, he is always telling padre how well he looks." "That was not his style to-day. He wanted me to insist on Dr. Duncan, or a London opinion." "Odd! Mr. Carden-Cox isn't generally a weathercock." "Hush—don't say any more now. Another time! Here comes Daisy." CHAPTER VII TO GO, OR NOT TO GO