When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deep old-fashioned chair propped up by pillows. She had been supplied with the simplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a blue cotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector's sister was often accustomed to do her morning's work. There was a marked incongruity between the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, a touch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer. The face, even in its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellect and its force. Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyes meeting hers. She motioned to him. "Send them all away." The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of them remaining in the room below. Buntingford came to sit close by her. "They say I shall kill myself if I talk," she said in her gasping whisper. "It doesn't matter. I must talk! So--you don't doubt the boy?" Her large black eyes fixed him intently. "No. I have no doubts--that he is my son. But his condition is very piteous. I have asked a specialist to come down." There was a gleam of scorn in her expression. "That'll do no good. I suppose--you think--we neglected the boy. _Niente_. We did the best we could. He was under a splendid man--in Naples--as good as any one here. He told me nothing could be done--and nothing can be done." Buntingford had the terrible impression that there was a certain triumph in the faint tone. He said nothing, and presently the whisper began again. "I keep seeing those people dancing--and hearing the band. I dropped a little bag--did anybody find it?" "Yes, I have it here." He drew it out of his pocket, and put it in her hand, which feebly grasped it. "Rocca gave it to me at Florence once, I am very fond of it. I suppose you wonder that--I loved him?" There was a strange and tragic contrast between the woman's weakness, and her bitter provocative spirit; just as there was between the picturesque strength of Buntingford--a man in his prime--and the humble, deprecating gentleness of his present voice and manner. "No," he answered. "I am glad--if it made you happy." "Happy!" She opened her eyes again. "Who's ever happy? We were never happy!" "Yes--at the beginning," he said, with a certain firmness. "Why take that away?" She made a protesting movement. "No--never! I was always--afraid. Afraid you'd get tired of me. I was only happy--working--and when they hung my picture--in the Salon--you remember?" "I remember it well." "But I was always jealous--of you. You drew better--than I did. That made me miserable." After a long pause, during which he gave her some of the prepared stimulant Ramsay had left ready, she spoke again, with rather more vigour. "Do you remember--that Artists' Fête--in the Bois--when I went as Primavera--Botticelli's Primavera?" "Perfectly."