"I am very seedy," she told him, "and my head aches; I shall be better
alone."
So Theo, with the biddableness that was an integral and to her rather
annoying quality of his character, had said no more, and returned to the
other guests. The gaily attired chambermaid, bearing a small jug
destined to strike dismay to some British admirers of the Conqueror, met
the girl on the stairs.
"_Bon soir_, mademoiselle," she said; "there's a telegram for you in
your _salon_."
Brigit stood still. A telegram! Bad news probably. And such was her
mental turmoil that at the thought she shrugged her shoulders. Almost
anything that would change the nature of her trouble would be welcome.
But the contents of the telegram were bad.
"Tommy very ill. Diphtheria. Wants you.
"Mother."
Tommy ill! Poor little boy, with all his joy of life and enthusiasms,
struck down by diphtheria! Why could it not be she instead?
But it was not the girl's nature to waste time in useless reflections
when any possible course of action lay before her.
Ringing, she sent for M. Berton, the proprietor, and finding that a
train left in half an hour, threw her belongings into her box and a few
minutes later was in a ramshackle cab clattering stationwards.
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