“Garry, dear, read this and then make up your mind whether to
   come here or not.

“This morning I was sitting on the Cardrosses’ terrace knitting a red four-in-hand for Mr. Wayward—­he is too snuffy in his browns and grays!—­and Mrs. Cardross was knitting one for Neville, and Cecile was knitting one for Heaven knows who, and Shiela, swinging her polo-mallet, sat waiting for her pony—­the cunning little thing in her boots and breeches!—­I mean the girl, not the pony, dear—­Oh, my, I’m getting involved and you’re hurrying through this scrawl perfectly furious, trying to find out what I’m talking about.

“Well, then; I forgot for a moment that Shiela was there within ear-shot; and eyes on my knitting, I began talking about you to Mrs. Cardross; and I had been gossiping away quite innocently for almost a minute when I chanced to look up and notice the peculiar expressions of Mrs. Cardross and Cecile.  They weren’t looking at me; they were watching Shiela, who had slipped down from the parapet where she had been perched and now stood beside my chair listening.

   “I hesitated, faltered, but did not make the mistake of stopping
   or changing the subject, but went on gaily telling about your
   work on the new Long Island park system.

   “And as long as I talked she remained motionless beside me.  They
   brought around her pony—­a new one—­but she did not stir.

“Her mother and sister continued their knitting, asking questions about you now and then, apparently taking no notice of her.  My monologue in praise of you became a triangular discussion; and all the while the pony was cutting up the marl drive with impatience, and Shiela never stirred.

   “Then Cecile said to me quite naturally:  ’I wish Garry were
   here.’  And, looking up at Shiela, she added:  ‘Don’t you?’

   “For a second or two there was absolute silence; and then Shiela
   said to me: 

   “‘Does he know I have been ill?’

   “‘Of course,’ I said, ’and he knows that you are now perfectly
   well.’

   “She turned slowly to her mother:  ‘Am I?’ she asked.

   “‘What, dear?’

   “‘Perfectly well.’

   “‘Certainly,’ replied her mother, laughing; ’well enough to break
   your neck on that horrid, jigging, little pony.  If Garry wants to
   see you alive he’d better come pretty soon—­’

   “‘Come here?’

“We all looked up at her.  Oh, Garry!  For a moment something came into her eyes that I never want to see there again—­and, please God, never shall!—­a momentary light like a pale afterglow of terror.

   “It went as it came; and the colour returned to her face.

   “‘Is he coming here?’ she asked calmly.

   “‘Yes,’ I made bold to say.

   “‘When?’

   “‘In a few days, I hope.’