"Tussie isn't well," she said the moment
Priscilla appeared, fixing her eyes on her face but looking as though
she hardly saw her, as though she saw past her, through her, to
something beyond, while she said a lesson learned by rote.
"Isn't he? Oh I'm sorry," said Priscilla.
"He caught cold last Sunday at your treat. He oughtn't to have run
those races with the boys. He can't--stand--much."
Priscilla looked at her questioningly. The old lady's face was quite
set and calm, but there had been a queer catch in her voice at the
last words.
"Why does he do such things, then?" asked Priscilla, feeling vaguely
distressed.
"Ah yes, my dear--why? That is a question for you to answer, is it
not?"
"For me?"
"On Tuesday night," continued Lady Shuttleworth, "he was ill when he
left home to come here. He would come. It was a terrible night for a
delicate boy to go out. And he didn't stay here, I understand. He went
out to buy something after closing time, and stood a long while trying
to wake the people up."
"Yes," said Priscilla, feeling guilty, "I--that was my fault.
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