'The one above? Oh really.' 'Yes. There's a sitting-room. But I was thinking whether being in the same bed--well, good-bye. Cheer her up. She'll want it when she's better. She'll feel weak. I'll be round to-morrow.' He went out pulling on his gloves, followed to the steps by Miss Entwhistle. On the steps he paused again. 'How does she like being here?' he asked. 'I don't know,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'We haven't talked at all yet.' She looked at him a moment, and then added, 'She's very much in love.' 'Ah. Yes. Really. I see. Well, good-bye.' He turned to go. 'It's wonderful, wonderful,' he said, pausing once more. 'What is wonderful?' 'What love will do.' 'It is indeed,' agreed Miss Entwhistle, thinking of all it had done to Lucy. He seemed as if he were going to say something more, but thought better of it and climbed into his dogcart and was driven away. XXIX Two days went by undisturbed by the least manifestation from Wemyss. Miss Entwhistle wrote to him on each of the afternoons, telling him of Lucy's progress and of what the doctor said about her, and on each of the evenings she lay down on the sofa to sleep feeling excessively insecure, for how very likely that he would come down by some late train and walk in, and then there she would be. In spite of that, she would have been very glad if he had walked in, it would have seemed more natural; and she couldn't help wondering whether the little thing in the bed wasn't thinking so too. But nothing happened. He didn't come, he didn't write, he made no sign of any sort. 'Curious,' said Miss Entwhistle to herself; and forbore to criticise further. They were peaceful days. Lucy was getting better all the time, though still kept carefully in bed by the doctor, and Miss Entwhistle felt as much justified in being in the house as Chesterton or Lizzie, for she was performing duties under a doctor's directions. Also the weather was quiet and sunshiny. In fact, there was peace. On Thursday the doctor said Lucy might get up for a few hours and sit on the sofa; and there, its asperities softened by pillows, she sat and had tea, and through the open window came the sweet smells of April. The gardener was mowing the lawn, and one of the smells was of the cut grass; Miss Entwhistle had been out for a walk, and found some windflowers and some lovely bright green moss, and put them in a bowl; the doctor had brought a little bunch of violets out of his garden; the afternoon sun lay beautifully on the hills across the river; the river slid past the end of the garden tranquilly; and Miss Entwhistle, pouring out Lucy's tea and buttering her toast, felt that she could at that moment very nearly have been happy, in spite of its being The Willows she was in, if there hadn't, in the background, brooding over her day and night, been that very odd and disquieting silence of Everard's.