It's no use for him to say that Rachel's better; she's not
better; she's worse."
Terence suffered a terrific shock, like that which he had suffered when
Rachel said, "My head aches." He stilled it by reflecting that Helen was
overwrought, and he was upheld in this opinion by his obstinate sense
that she was opposed to him in the argument.
"Do you think she's in danger?" he asked.
"No one can go on being as ill as that day after day--" Helen replied.
She looked at him, and spoke as if she felt some indignation with
somebody.
"Very well, I'll talk to Rodriguez this afternoon," he replied.
Helen went upstairs at once.
Nothing now could assuage Terence's anxiety. He could not read, nor
could he sit still, and his sense of security was shaken, in spite of
the fact that he was determined that Helen was exaggerating, and that
Rachel was not very ill. But he wanted a third person to confirm him in
his belief.
Directly Rodriguez came down he demanded, "Well, how is she? Do you
think her worse?"
"There is no reason for anxiety, I tell you--none," Rodriguez replied in
his execrable French, smiling uneasily, and making little movements all
the time as if to get away.
Hewet stood firmly between him and the door. He was determined to see
for himself what kind of man he was. His confidence in the man vanished
as he looked at him and saw his insignificance, his dirty appearance,
his shiftiness, and his unintelligent, hairy face.
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