Mr. Romaine—the more so that what the great specialist he had consulted had predicted was actually happening. Being disturbed in mind, he was becoming ill in body. How on earth had that cruel French woman found out about Dr. Chambers? So Mr. Romaine thought, sitting in his library chair, suffering acutely. Dr. Chessingham offered to come in and read to him, to play écarté with him—but it occurred to Mr. Romaine that perhaps a visit to the Chessinghams' part of the house might divert his spirits and take his mind off the torturing subject of Madame de Fonblanque. He took Bridge's arm and tottered off to the Chessinghams' sitting-room. But the instant he entered the door his indomitable spirit asserted itself. He stood upright, walked steadily, and even forced a smile to his lips. Mrs. Chessingham and Ethel were at their everlasting fancy work, of which Mr. Romaine had never seen a completed specimen. Ethel rose and placed a chair for him—which, as he was old and infirm and needed it, nettled him extremely.
"Pray, my dear Miss Maywood, don't trouble yourself. I do not yet require the kind coddling you would bestow upon me."
