Anne stared at her friend. There was something ominous and dismaying in her solemn tenderness, and it roused Anne to wonder, even in her grief. "You cannot help me, dear," she said. "No one can. Yet I had to come to you and tell you--" "Tell me everything," said Mrs. Eliott, "if you can." Anne tried to steady her voice to tell her, and failed. Then Fanny had an inspiration. She felt that she must divert Anne's thoughts from the grief that made her dumb, and get her to talk naturally of other things. "How's Peggy?" said she. She knew it would be good to remind her that, whatever happened, she had still the child. But at that question, Anne released Mrs. Eliott's hand, and laid her head back upon the cushion and cried. "Dear," whispered Mrs. Eliott, with her inspiration full upon her, "you will always have _her_." Then Anne sat up in her corner, and put away her tears, and controlled herself to speak. "Fanny," she said, "Dr. Gardner has seen her. He says I shall not have her very long. Perhaps--a few years--if we take the very greatest care--" "Oh, my dear! What is it?" "It's her heart. I thought it was her spine, because of Edie. But it isn't. She has valvular disease. Oh, Fanny, I didn't think a little child could have it." "Nor I," said Mrs. Eliott, shocked into a great calm. "But surely--if you take care--" "No. He gives no hope. He only says a few years, if we leave Scale and take her into the country. She must never be overtired, never excited. We must never vex her. He says one violent crying fit might kill her. And she cries so easily. She cries sometimes till she's sick." Mrs. Eliott's face had grown white; she trembled, and was dumb before the anguish of Anne's face. But it was Anne who rose, and put her arms about the childless woman, and kissed and comforted her. It was as if she had said: Thank God you never had one. CHAPTER XXXI The rumour which was going the round of the clubs in due time reached Lady Cayley through the Ransomes. It roused in her many violent and conflicting emotions. She sat trembling in the Ransomes' drawing-room. Mrs. Ransome had just asked whether there was anything in it; because if there was, she, Mrs. Ransome, washed her hands of her. She intimated that it would take a good deal of washing to get Sarah off her hands. Sarah had unveiled the face of horror, the face of outraged virtue, and the wrath and writhing of propriety wounded in the uncertain, quivering, vital spot. During the unveiling Dick Ransome had come in. He wanted to know if Topsy had been bullying poor Toodles. Whereupon Topsy wept feebly, and poor Toodles had a moment of monstrous calm.