him to be terribly quiet. He felt, suddenly, so sick at the idea of having lingered at Medley while there was distress in the wretched little house to which he owed so much, that he scarcely found strength for an articulate question, and obeyed, mechanically, the mute, urgent gesture by which Lady Aurora appealed to him to go downstairs with her. It was only when they stood together in the deserted parlour (it was as if he perceived for the first time what an inelegant odour prevailed there), that he asked, 'Is she dying—is she dead?' That was the least the strained sadness looking out from the face of the noble visitor appeared to announce.
'Dear Mr. Robinson, I'm so sorry for you. I wanted to write, but I promised her I wouldn't. She is very ill—we are very anxious. It began ten days ago, and I suppose I must tell you how much she has gone down.' Lady Aurora spoke with more than all her usual embarrassments and precautions, eagerly, yet as if it cost her much pain: pausing a little after everything she said, to see how he would take it; then going on, with a propitiatory rush. He learned presently what was the matter, what doctor she had sent for, and that if he would wait a little before going into the room it would be so much better; the invalid having sunk, within half an hour, into a doze of a less agitated kind than she had had for some time, from which it would be an immense pity to run the risk of waking her. The doctor gave her the right things, as it seemed to her ladyship, but he admitted that she had very little power of resistance. He was of course not a very large practitioner, Mr. Buffery, from round the corner, but he seemed really clever;
