She answers only indirectly; "'Fear at my heart, as at a cup, The life-blood seemed to sip.' "Sometimes I think that Coleridge wrote those lines expressly for me." After a pause, in a voice of anxious asking: "She has not mentioned him to you lately, has she?" "No." "That is a good sign. Do not you think that that is a good sign? I think that she is getting better; do not you?" For a moment he cannot answer, both because he is deeply touched by the confidence in him and his sympathy evidenced by her appeal, and for a yet more potent reason. Little she guesses how often, and with what heart-searchings and spirit-sinkings, he has put that question to himself. "I do not know," he replies at last, with difficulty; "it is hard to judge." "You have not told him that we are here?" in a quick, panic-struck tone, as of one smitten with a new and sharp apprehension. "Oh no!" "You do not think that he is at all likely to join you here?" "Not in the least!" with an almost angry energy, which reveals to himself how deeply distasteful the mere suggestion of Byng's reappearance on the scene is to him. Mrs. Le Marchant heaves a second sigh. This time it is one of relief. "Then I do not see," with a sudden bound upwards into sanguineness which reminds him of her daughter, "why we should not all be very comfortable." Jim is pondering in his mind upon the significance of this "all," whether it is meant to include only Mr. Le Marchant, or whether, under its shelter, he himself may creep into that promised comfort, when she of whom they have been speaking re-enters. She has a packet of photographs, presumably suitable for amputation, in her hand, in which is also held a telegram, which she extends to Burgoyne. "I met M. Cipriani bringing you this. It seems that you ought to have had it two days ago, but, by some mistake, it was put into another gentleman's room--a gentleman who has never arrived--and there it has remained. He was full of apologies, but I told him what culpable carelessness it showed. I do trust," with a sweetly solicitous look, "that it is not anything that matters." "It cannot be of much consequence," replies Jim indifferently, while a sort of pang darts through him at the thought of how strangely destitute he is of people to be uncomfortably anxious about, and so tears it open. An English telegram transmitted by French clerks often wears a very different air from that meant to be imparted to it by the sender, which is, perhaps, the reason why Jim remains staring so long at his--so long that the two women's good manners prompt them to remove their sympathetic eyes from him, and to attempt a little talk with each other. "I hope you have no bad news?" The elder one permits herself this inquiry after a more than decent interval has elapsed, during which he has made no sign. He gives a start, as one too suddenly awaked out of deep sleep.