“But yes, yes, yes! and when you wrote to me you never said one word about being ill—­though I might have suspected it.  Your writing was so feeble—­so shockingly shaky.  How long has my aunt been like this?” she asked, appealing to Lily.

“About three—­four weeks,” replied the pouter pigeon, with calm unconcern; “ever since Mr. Krauss went to Singapore.”

“Most of her friends have been away and my aunt has had no one to look after her, except you?  Did the German ladies come to see her?”

“They did—­yes, three, four times; asking plenty questions.  Mem-sahib would not receive them, she liking only be left alone.”

To-day Mrs. Krauss appeared almost unconscious of Sophy’s presence and to be sunken in a sort of stupor.

As soon as Herr Krauss arrived home Sophy accosted him and deplored her aunt’s condition.

“If you had only sent me a line I would have been here the next day.”

“Oh yes, of course,” he acquiesced brusquely.  “She wanted you to have a good time.  I have been away, too.  Now that you are here I expect she will pick up, same as before.”

“But do you not think that Aunt Flora should see a doctor?  The pain is so agonising that she seems quite stupid and dazed!”

“A doctor—­no,” he replied; “she would not allow him inside the compound; her complaint comes and goes after the manner of its kind; just now it has been troublesome and this damp climate is bad for neuralgia.  Your aunt refuses to leave home, and so there it is!  Lily knows the remedies; she has been with us for years, and I have every confidence in her nursing.”

After this Sophy realised that there was nothing more to be said or done, but patiently to await her aunt’s recovery.

It was now the cool weather and, by degrees, Mrs. Krauss was able to leave her bed and repose in a long chair in the veranda.  As her husband predicted, Sophy’s company was a wonderful help towards her convalescence.  She liked to hear all the news from May Myo about the people, their clothes, their doings and their gaieties.  She even roused herself to play patience and picquet, to read, to enjoy Sophy’s music, but she showed no inclination to emerge into society, or receive friends.

“You must go about and amuse yourself, Sophy; I do not feel up to motoring round, as I did last winter, but I won’t keep you cooped up here with me—­then we should have, not one invalid, but two.  You must enjoy your young days, mix with other young people, dance and ride, bring me the gossip and tell me all your love affairs, honour bright!  Mrs. Gregory has promised to chaperon you until I am better.”

“No, indeed, Aunt Flora, I’d much rather stay with you,” she protested.  “I could not enjoy myself half so much if you are not with me.  Don’t you remember how nice it was last year, talking over everything together after dances and the theatre?  I will play to you and read aloud, and if I ride in the morning, that will be as much outing as I shall require.”