Fanny went down to Vizard, and invited him to come and see Mademoiselle Klosking--by her desire. “But,” she added, “Miss Gale is very anxious lest you should get talking of Severne. She says the fever and loss of blood have weakened her terribly; and if we bring the fever on again, she cannot answer for her life.” “Has she spoken of him to you?” “Not once.” “Then why should she to me?” “Because you are a man, and she may think to get the _truth_ out of you: she knows _we_ shall only say what is for the best. She is very deep, and we don't know her mind yet.” Vizard said he would be as guarded as he could; but if they saw him going wrong, they must send him away. “Oh, Miss Gale will do that, you may be sure,” said Fanny. Thus prepared, Vizard followed Fanny up the stairs to the sick-room. Either there is such a thing as love at first sight, or it is something more than first sight, when an observant man gazes at a woman for an hour in a blaze of light, and drinks in her looks, her walk, her voice, and all the outward signs of a beautiful soul; for the stout cynic's heart beat at entering that room as it had not beat for years. To be sure, he had not only seen her on the stage in all her glory, but had held her, pale and bleeding, to his manly breast, and his heart warmed to her all the more, and, indeed, fairly melted with tenderness. Fanny went in and announced him. He followed softly, and looked at her. Wealth can make even a sick-room pretty. The Klosking lay on snowy pillows whose glossy damask was edged with lace; and upon her form was an eider-down quilt covered with violet-colored satin, and her face was set in that sweet cap which hid her wound, and made her eloquent face less ghastly. She turned to look at him, and he gazed at her in a way that spoke volumes. “A seat,” said she, softly. Fanny was for putting one close to her. “No,” said Miss Gale, “lower down; then she need not to turn her head.” So he sat down nearer her feet. “My good host,” said she, in her mellow voice, that retained its quality, but not its power, “I desire to thank you for your goodness to a poor singer, struck down--by the hand that was bound to protect her.” Vizard faltered out that there was nothing to thank him for. He was proud to have her under his roof, though deeply grieved at the cause. She looked at him, and her two nurses looked at her and at each other, as much as to say, “She is going upon dangerous ground.”