But, though she could not hear of Arabella's invitation without some of the old bitterness rising on her tongue, Dora did not hesitate for a second about taking advantage of it. The long-lost dress cases had, after much misadventure, found their way from Brest to Clithero; and, in better spirits than she had felt since the day of the masquerade, Mrs. Lawrence at once set about repacking them for her season in London—so she persisted in calling this forlorn campaign upon which she was about to embark. Who should say she was not going to enjoy herself? It was all a chance! She might continue too weak to risk the fatigue of balls, or she might get stronger, and be out every night of her life. Who should say that the world, any more than Arabella, was going to support Steven in his eccentricity? At all events, there could be no harm done by taking the dresses. It would be amusement to look at them oneself sometimes, even if there was no opportunity of letting them be seen! So, late in the May twilight (the peaceful country silence round the house, the peaceful purple overhead), Katharine, looking in through a half-opened door, saw the little figure busy and singing over her fripperies, stopping ever and awhile, tired even by their slight weight, her hand to her side, then on again. Satins, silks, feathers—material for a whole season of dissipation; the newest sacks for the morning, the newest redingotes for the afternoon; toilettes for balls, for theatres, for dinners; even the blue and silver page-dress stowed away. Poor butterfly soul—as if ball-travesty should be needed by her more in this world!
They went up to London, and for a few days her spirits continued excellent. People might talk as they liked of the superiority of country air. No air so good, in reality, as what you get in cities. It stood to reason—all the fires must warm it into a state fit for human beings. Then, no visitors having called, and the old Countess de Castro chancing to look the other way when she drove past the cousins in the park, she drooped. Who that had been born in Paris could feel well in this horrible, smoky, dingy London? Now you could see what Steven's injustice had brought her to! The world, of course, knew of their separation, and, of course, took the husband's part. "As to Madame de Castro," cried Dot, her pinched face firing, "I would like to know the secrets of her youth. Oh, the hypocrisy, the cant, the injustice of these hard old women of the world!"
Next morning, yielding to Katharine's wish, she for the first time saw a physician. He was a man noteworthy throughout Europe; able at mental as at bodily diagnosis, and nothing could be apter than his treatment of this poor querulous little creature, who, vainly fretting to keep in life's highway still, was already so far upon the narrow path to death! He heard—with admirable assumption of its being unimportant—the fact that both Dora's parents had died prematurely of decline; heard attentively, not with too ominous gravity, her accounts of herself; listened keenly to the fluttering heart, the uneven breath; ordered her to be highly nourished, a great deal in the open air; made her smile at one or two bits of latest London gossip; and when Katharine followed him down stairs, and besought him to tell the whole truth, told it. The case was absolutely without hope. Mrs. Lawrence might possibly live for some time; but the hereditary disease was complicated by affection of the heart, and her friends ought to know that she might die at any instant. Her mind must be kept at rest; this above everything; and, if it was possible to amuse her without late hours and excitement, let her be so amused. Medicine could be of little avail in such a case, but he would call in occasionally and see how the patient was going. Then he shook the hand of his white-cheeked questioner holding it for a second with
