"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short--so much has happened. I seem to have known her for years."
"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.
Philippa explained, and for a moment a hope shot through Marion's mind that this woman might succeed where she had failed.
"What does she think of it all?" she asked rather nervously.
"She entirely agrees with me, because--you see--she has loved Francis all her life, and she only thinks of him."
Marion sighed with disappointment. If that was the case any appeal for interference from that quarter was useless.
"She would come if I wanted her," continued Philippa, "and I see her fairly constantly." And with that Marion was forced to be content.
As she journeyed back again that evening her thoughts hovered anxiously between her child in his weakness and her friend in her mistaken contentment. If only it were possible to divide herself, she thought piteously, between these two who both needed her so much! But, after all, did Philippa need her? Not consciously, certainly, and yet Marion told herself miserably that things would never have tangled themselves into this knot if she had been at Bessacre. She could not leave Dickie, for even his father could not satisfy him for any length of time. It was his mother he clung to in the weariness of convalescence, and it was out of the question to move him yet.
There was nothing to do but to let things take their course. For a moment she had an idea of sending her husband home, but after all what could Bill do? There was not much chance of his being able to persuade Philippa where she had failed, and, indeed, Bill had already made one effort in that direction, and was by no means over-anxious to undertake a second attempt to stem the torrent of a woman's will.