"Then he's not human," said Vernon bluntly.
"He's human enough to be annoyed with me because I chose to earn my own living," said Frances bitterly. "However, let us see Ida, and then I'll tell you all about my brother. In fact, I want to ask your advice."
"Why should you think I was capable of giving advice, Miss Hest?"
"Oh, you are so grave," she replied with a smile and halting at the door of the boudoir, "and Mr. Dimsdale, poor man, always said that you were so clever in making suggestions. Besides, you don't know the opinion Ida has of you. Ida, dear," she passed into the room, "here is Mr. Vernon."
"Arthur," said the girl, who was lying on a couch near the window, "oh, I am so glad to see you. I'm glad Frances did not send you away. She's such a tyrant as my nurse."
"Perhaps you need a tyrant to manage you, Ida. You were always too impulsive and reckless of your health."
"I think I have changed since poor papa's death. I don't feel reckless in any way now. I shall never get over it; never."
Frances, who had taken some knitting to sit in a near chair, frowned as the girl spoke. "That's the way she goes on, Mr. Vernon. Isn't it foolish? I want her to go out and enjoy herself."
"As if I could when poor papa is dead only two months," cried Ida sighing.
"Oh, I don't mean you to lead a gay life. But you shouldn't stay here day after day without sunshine."
"I think Miss Hest is right, Ida," said Vernon, gravely scrutinising the pale face of the girl; "you are not looking well."
"I don't feel at all well," she replied peevishly.
"There's nothing organically wrong," put in Frances quickly. "The doctor said that Ida was perfectly healthy, and only needed to go out and lead a happy life to become quite strong."
"I shall never be happy again," said Ida with determination. Visitor and nurse--as Frances might be called--looked at one another. The girl evidently had made up her mind to be miserable.
This was not a sensible attitude to adopt, but then Ida was not a particularly sensible girl. She assuredly was not brilliantly clever, although she possessed a certain amount of brains. Pretty in a doll-like way, with her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy-pink complexion, she was an excellent type of a charming, modest, playful English girl, who would make a good wife and a devoted mother. But there was nothing original about her, and, being the spoilt darling of an elderly father, she was subject to moods. She was sick or well, merry or sad, just as the fit took her. At one time she would fatigue herself with theatres and dances and tennis-tournaments, and again, with a revulsion of feeling, would lie on the sofa all day, reading novels. Poets would have called her an April lady, of sunshine and rain, but an ordinary human being would have found her trying. It said a great deal for Miss Hest's true affection that she put up with so whimsical a being. A weathercock was nothing in comparison with Ida Dimsdale.