So now Bessie wandered about the house and grounds, talking to the servants, who adored her, singing her snatches of little French songs, smoking interminably, and even quietly interrogating Herbert when one evening he came to dine, and she got downstairs before the others.
"I don't think Kay is looking very well. Do you?"
"It's still warm."
"This isn't her first summer," she said, rather sharply. "She's thin, and I don't think she's very happy."
"I can't say as to that. She's rather quiet. But then she never is—boisterous."
"Now see here, Herbert," she said. "I've seen a lot of lives ruined by people keeping their mouths shut when they should have talked. I happen to be fond of Kay, and there's something wrong with her. She doesn't laugh and she doesn't eat. I don't think she's sleeping, either. It isn't between you and her, is it?"
"Good Lord! No."
"Do you know what it is?"
And for a moment she thought he was going to tell her. Then he pulled himself up, all correct in his dinner jacket with his tie neatly tied, and remembered that there were some things one did not talk about.
"Really," he said, "I hardly feel that I can discuss Kay, even with you, Mrs. Osborne. Why don't you talk to her yourself?"
She turned away from him, exasperated.
Then, the next and last day of her visit, she walked into Kay's bedroom to find her face down on the bed, and a little, a very little snap-shot picture clutched in her hand. She had dropped asleep like that, and with no more compunction than she would have extracted a splinter, Bessie Osborne took the picture from her as she slept, and carried it to the window.
She was still gazing at it when Kay wakened and sat up. Bessie turned and looked at her.
"It won't do, darling," she said. "He's a handsome rascal, but it just won't do."
Kay slid off the bed and went over to her.
