She wrote to Mrs. Phillips that she was
feeling unwell and would be unable to lunch with them on the Sunday, as
had been arranged. Mrs. Phillips, much disappointed, suggested
Wednesday; but it seemed on Wednesday she was no better. And so it
drifted on for about a fortnight, without her finding the courage to come
to any decision; and then one morning, turning the corner into Abingdon
Street, she felt a slight pull at her sleeve; and Hilda was beside her.
The child had shown an uncanny intuition in not knocking at the door.
Joan had been fearing that, and would have sent down word that she was
out. But it had to be faced.
"Are you never coming again?" asked the child.
"Of course," answered Joan, "when I'm better. I'm not very well just
now. It's the weather, I suppose."
The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her. Joan felt
herself smarting under that look, but persisted.
"I'm very much run down," she said. "I may have to go away."
"You promised to help him," said the child.
"I can't if I'm ill," retorted Joan. "Besides, I am helping him.
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