the large ward where the four other wounded officers
now lay, all going on, she was glad to know, very well,
and all having had a visit from Mr. Jenkinson, the
London specialist.

She hurried on, smiling a little as she did so. She
was no longer afraid of Sir John Blake. In fact she
was becoming very fond of him, though it hurt her
always to hear how sharply and irritably he spoke to
his gentle, yielding wife. Of course Lady Blake was
very unreasonable sometimes -- but she was so helpless,
so clinging, and so fond of Jervis.

And then, as she turned a corner -- for "Robey's"
consisted of three houses, through each of which an
intercommunication had been made -- there fell on
Rose Otway's ear a very dreadful sound, that of some
one crying in wild, unbridled grief. The sound came
from Mrs. Robey's little sitting-room, and suddenly
Rose heard her own mother's voice raised in expostulation.
She was evidently trying to comfort and calm
the poor stranger -- doubtless the mother or wife of
one of the four officers upstairs. Two days ago one
of these visitors had had something very like a fit of
hysterics after seeing her wounded husband. Rose
shrank from the memory. But this was worse -- far
worse. She hurried on into Mr. Robey's study.

The study, which was a very agreeable room, over-
looked the Close. It was panelled with dark old oak,
and lined on one side with books, and opposite the
centre window hung Mr. Robey's greatest treasure, a
watercolour by Turner of Witanbury Cathedral,
painted from the meadows behind the town.

Today Mr. Robey himself was not there, but his
brother and Sir John Blake were both waiting for her.

[[249]]

p248 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p249w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p250

v?