This was a question for the doctors which Mrs. Robarts would not take upon herself to answer. She would not make that falsehood matter of accusation, but neither would she pronounce for it any absolution. In that matter Lucy must regulate her own conscience. “And what shall I do next?” said Lucy, still speaking in a tone that was half tragic and half jeering. “Do?” said Mrs. Robarts. “Yes, something must be done. If I were a man I should go to Switzerland, of course; or, as the case is a bad one, perhaps as far as Hungary. What is it that girls do? they don’t die now-a-days, I believe.” “Lucy, I do not believe that you care for him one jot. If you were in love you would not speak of it like that.” “There, there. That’s my only hope. If I could laugh at myself till it had become incredible to you, I also, by degrees, should cease to believe that I had cared for him. But, Fanny, it is very hard. If I were to starve, and rise before daybreak, and pinch myself, or do some nasty work,—clean the pots and pans and the candlesticks; that I think would do the most good. I have got a piece of sack-cloth, and I mean to wear that, when I have made it up.” “You are joking now, Lucy, I know.” “No, by my word; not in the spirit of what I am saying. How shall I act upon my heart, if I do not do it through the blood and the flesh?” “Do you not pray that God will give you strength to bear these troubles?” “But how is one to word one’s prayer, or how even to word one’s wishes? I do not know what is the wrong that I have done. I say it boldly; in this matter I cannot see my own fault. I have simply found that I have been a fool.” It was now quite dark in the room, or would have been so to any one entering it afresh. They had remained there talking till their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and would still have remained, had they not suddenly been disturbed by the sound of a horse’s feet. “There is Mark,” said Fanny, jumping up and running to the bell, that lights might be ready when he should enter. “I thought he remained in Barchester to-night.” “And so did I; but he said it might be doubtful. What shall we do if he has not dined?” That, I believe, is always the first thought in the mind of a good wife when her husband returns home. Has he had his dinner? What can I give him for dinner? Will he like his dinner? Oh dear, oh dear! there is nothing in the house but cold mutton. But on this occasion the lord of the mansion had dined, and came home radiant with good-humour, and owing, perhaps, a little of his radiance to the dean’s claret. “I have told them,” said he, “that they may keep possession of the house for the next two months, and they have agreed to that arrangement.” “That is very pleasant,” said Mrs. Robarts. “And I don’t think we shall have so much trouble about the dilapidations after all.” “I am very glad of that,” said Mrs. Robarts. But nevertheless she was thinking much more of Lucy than of the house in Barchester Close.