The next visitor who interrupted her retirement came in without the preliminary of knocking. It was Markham who thus made his appearance, presenting himself to the full daylight in his light clothes and colourless aspect; not very well dressed, a complete contrast to the beautiful if sickly youth of her first visitor, and to the size and vigour of the other. Markham had neither beauty nor vigour. Even the usual keenness and humorous look had gone out of his face. He held a letter in his hand. He did not, like the others, put himself into the chair where Lady Markham, herself turned from the light, could mark every change of countenance in her interlocutor. He went up to the fire with the ease of the master of the house, and stood in front of it as an Englishman loves to do. But he was not quite at his ease on this occasion. He said nothing until he had assumed his place, and even stood for a whole minute or more silent before he found his voice. Lady Markham had turned her chair towards him at once, and sat with her head raised and expectant, watching him. For with Markham, never very reticent of his words, this prolonged pause seemed to mean that there was something important to say. But it did not appear when he spoke. He put the forefinger of one hand on the letter he held in the other. “I have heard from the Winterbourns,” he said. “They are coming to-morrow.” Lady Markham made the usual little exclamation “Oh!”--faintly breathed with the slightest catch, as if it might have meant more. Then, after a moment--“Very well, Markham: they can have their usual rooms,” she said. Again there was a little pause. Then--“He is not very well,” said Markham. “Oh, that is a pity,” she replied with very little concern. “That’s not strong enough. I believe he is rather ill. They are leaving the Crosslands sooner than they intended because there’s no doctor there.” “Then it is a good thing,” said Lady Markham, “that there is such a good doctor here. We are so healthy a party, he is quite thrown away on us.” Markham did not find that his mother divined what he wanted to say with her usual promptitude. “I am afraid Winterbourn is in a bad way,” he said at length, moving uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoiding her eye. “Do you mean that there is anything serious--dangerous? Good heavens!” cried Lady Markham, now fully roused, “I hope she is not going to bring that man to die here.” “That’s just what I have been thinking. It would be decidedly awkward.” “Oh, awkward is not the word,” cried Lady Markham, with a sudden vision of all the inconveniences: her pretty house turned upside down--though it was not hers, but his--a stop put to everything--the flight of her guests in every direction--herself detained and separated from all her social duties. “You take it very coolly,” she said. “You must write and say it is impossible in the circumstances.”