“That is my diagnosis, madam,” he said. “I have bled Mr. Jeffray of ten ounces, and ordered him to be sponged with tepid water. One of the grooms is to ride back with me to Rookhurst for the physic. There will be a fever mixture and a bolus. Can I oblige your ladyship in any way?” The dowager plied her handkerchief and strove to recover her disturbed dignity. Richard with the small-pox! How deplorably vexatious, not to say—inconsiderate—her nephew’s illness appeared! Meanwhile, Surgeon Stott had risen. He bowed to the dowager till his tight riding-breeches creaked, and seemed not a little amused at the old lady’s fluster. “With your kind permission, madam,” he said, “I will call again to-morrow. Your ladyship may even need my humble attention.” The dowager bridled at the insinuation. “Call by all means,” she retorted, “but I shall have transferred myself to some locality where I can obtain trustworthy advice.” When Mr. Stott had gone, the dowager pealed the bell, and almost squealed at Gladden when his emotionless face appeared at the door. “Send Parsons to me at once, and order Betsy to pack my boxes.” Peter Gladden bowed, smiled curiously, and departed. At the end of three minutes Parsons, the Lady Letitia’s confidential man, a thin, circumspect individual with a prim mouth and a long nose, marched in to receive his mistress’s orders. “Parsons, we must leave Rodenham at once. Have the coach ready by one, and order Betsy to pack my trunks. Can we make Tunbridge Wells before dusk?” Parsons bowed, and apologized for the roads—in that they had the bad taste to be execrably heavy. “Drat the roads,” quoth the old lady, in a fine fume. “No decent folk should venture into this abominable wilderness. Where can we bait for the night, Parsons?” “We can find a good inn at Grinstead, madam.” “Let it be Grinstead, then. And Parsons, see that Gladden and the servants have their vails; a guinea will do for the wenches; here is my purse. And see to your pistols, Parsons; this beggarly slough is full of smugglers and footpads.” The suave and obsequious Parsons left to prepare his mistress’s departure. The Lady Letitia, still unduly distressed, hobbled up to her bedroom by the back stairs, so that she should not pass her nephew’s door. The guineas Richard had loaned to her were sewn up in a leather bag under her hoop. Miss Betsy was flinging gowns, petticoats, and underclothing into the trunks, being no less eager than the Lady Letitia to flee the house that the pest had entered. The room was littered with scarves, pomade-boxes, pins, ribbons, jewelry, gowns, stockings, and shoes. The dowager stood leaning on her stick, scolding and directing the girl as she hurried the multifarious articles into the trunks. The old lady did not attempt to conceal either her nervousness or her annoyance from her maid.