There is so much that I want you to tell me about her. As an old friend I want the benefit of your fresher eye.”
“About Bessy?” Justine hesitated, letting her glance drift to the distant group still anchored about the tennis-nets. “Don’t you find her looking better?”
“Than when I left? So much so that I was unduly disturbed, just now, by seeing that clever little doctor—it was he, wasn’t it, who came up the lawn with you?”
“Dr. Wyant? Yes.” Miss Brent hesitated again. “But he merely called—with a message.”
“Not professionally? Tant mieux! The truth is, I was anxious about Bessy when I left—I thought she ought to have gone abroad for a change. But, as it turns out, her little excursion with you did as well.”
“I think she only needed rest. Perhaps her six weeks in the Adirondacks were better than Europe.” '
“Ah, under your care—that made them better!” Mrs. Ansell in turn hesitated, the lines of her face melting and changing as if a rapid stage—hand had shifted them. When she spoke again they were as open as a public square, but also as destitute of personal significance, as flat and smooth as the painted drop before the real scene it hides.
“I have always thought that Bessy, for all her health and activity, needs as much care as Cicely—the kind of care a clever friend can give. She is so wasteful of
her strength and her nerves, and so unwilling to listen
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