Joan stopped. "Why, it's the house you are always talking about," she
said. "Are you thinking of taking it?"
"I did go over it," he answered. "But it would be rather absurd for just
Mary and me."
She looked up Phillips at the House, and gave him Greyson's message. He
had just returned from Folkestone, and was worried.
"She was so much better last week," he explained. "But it never lasts."
"Poor old girl!" he added. "I believe she'd have been happier if I'd
always remained plain Bob Phillips."
Joan had promised to go down on the Friday; but finding, on the Thursday
morning, that it would be difficult, decided to run down that afternoon
instead. She thought at first of sending a wire. But in Mrs. Phillips's
state of health, telegrams were perhaps to be avoided. It could make no
difference. The front door of the little house was standing half open.
She called down the kitchen stairs to the landlady, but received no
answer. The woman had probably run out on some short errand. She went
up the stairs softly. The bedroom door, she knew, would be open.
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