Priscilla looked at her questioningly.  The old lady’s face was quite set and calm, but there had been a queer catch in her voice at the last words.

“Why does he do such things, then?” asked Priscilla, feeling vaguely distressed.

“Ah yes, my dear—­why?  That is a question for you to answer, is it not?”

“For me?”

“On Tuesday night,” continued Lady Shuttleworth, “he was ill when he left home to come here.  He would come.  It was a terrible night for a delicate boy to go out.  And he didn’t stay here, I understand.  He went out to buy something after closing time, and stood a long while trying to wake the people up.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla, feeling guilty, “I—­that was my fault.  He went for me.”

“Yes my dear.  Since then he has been ill.  I’ve come to ask you if you’ll drive back with me and see if—­if you cannot persuade him that you are happy.  He seems to be much—­troubled.”

“Troubled?”

“He seems to be afraid you are not happy.  You know,” she added with a little quavering smile, “Tussie is very kind.  He is very unselfish.  He takes everybody’s burdens on his shoulders.  He seems to be quite haunted by the idea that your life here is unendurably uncomfortable, and it worries him dreadfully that he can’t get to you to set things straight.  I think if he were to see you, and you were very cheerful, and—­and smiled, my dear, it might help to get him over this.”

“Get him over this?” echoed Priscilla.  “Is he so ill?”

Lady Shuttleworth looked at her and said nothing.

“Of course I’ll come,” said Priscilla, hastily ringing the bell.

“But you must not look unhappy,” said Lady Shuttleworth, laying her hand on the girl’s arm, “that would make matters ten times worse.  You must promise to be as gay as possible.”

“Yes, yes—­I’ll be gay,” promised Priscilla, while her heart became as lead within her at the thought that she was the cause of poor Tussie’s sufferings.  But was she really, she asked herself during the drive?  What had she done but accept help eagerly offered?  Surely it was very innocent to do that?  It was what she had been doing all her life, and people had been delighted when she let them be kind to her, and certainly had not got ill immediately afterwards.  Were you never to let anybody do anything for you lest while they were doing it they should get wet feet and things, and then their colds would be upon your head?  She was very sorry Tussie should be ill, dreadfully sorry.  He was so kind and good that it was impossible not to like him.  She did like him.  She liked him quite as well as most young men and much better than many.  “I’m afraid you are very unhappy,” she said suddenly to Lady Shuttleworth, struck by the look on her face as she leaned back, silent, in her corner.

“I do feel rather at my wits’ end,” said Lady Shuttleworth.  “For instance, I’m wondering whether what I’m doing now isn’t a great mistake.”