She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on the previous evening, and, though making light of her accident, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and come to her for an hour or two that evening.
"I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps inconvenience you, as you must be tired or busy," she wrote; "but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and walk up in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and myself company, it would be a real boon to us both." And then she signed herself "Magdalene Cheyne."
Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the note to Nan, who was still in the linen-closet.
"Very kind; very friendly," commented Nan, when she had finished reading it; "but I could not possibly go, Phil. As soon as I have done this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day. You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy."
"I don't feel as though an excuse will help us here," returned Phillis, slowly. "When an unpleasant thing has to be done, it is as well to get it over: thinking about it only hinders one's sleep."
"But you will surely not go alone!" demanded Nan, in astonishment. "You are so tired, Phil: you have been working hard all day. Give it up, dear, and sit and rest in the garden a little."
"Oh, no," returned Phillis, disconsolately. "I value my night's rest too much to imperil it so lightly: besides, I owe it to myself for a penance for being such a coward this afternoon." And then, without waiting for any further dissuasion, she carried off the letter and wrote a very civil but vague reply, promising to walk up in the evening and inquire after the invalid; and then she dismissed the messenger, and went up to her room with a heavy heart.
Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered on without intermission.
"I suppose you will put on your best dress?" she asked, as she dived down into the recesses of a big box.
Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, roused up at this:
"My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitzroy Lodge? Dulce, how can you be so absurd! Anything will do,--the gray stuff, or the old foulard. No, stop; I forgot: the gray dress is better made and newer in cut. We must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out when one is tired to death!" she continued, with unusual irritation.