"My goodness, no!" cried Duffham, nearly laughing. "Men are made of tougher stuff than to die of the thing called love, Lady Chavasse. What is it Shakespeare says? 'Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.' There is no question but that Sir Geoffry has always had an inherent tendency to delicacy of constitution," he continued more seriously: "my partner Layne told me so. It was warded off for a time, and he grew into a strong, hearty man: it might perhaps have been warded off for good. But the blight--as you aptly express it, Lady Chavasse--came: and perhaps since then the spirit has not been able to maintain its own proper struggle for existence--in which lies a great deal, mind you; and now that the original weakness has shown itself again, he cannot shake it off." "But--according to that--he _is_ dying of the blight?" "Well--in a sense, yes. If you like to put it so." Her lips grew white. There rose before her mind that one hour of bitter agony in her lifetime and her son's, when he had clasped his pleading hands on hers, and told her in a voice hoarse with its bitter pain and emotion that if she decided against him he could never know happiness again in this world: that to part from one to whom he was bound by sweet endearment, by every tie that ought to bind man to woman, would be like parting with life. Entrenched in her pride, she had turned a deaf ear, and rejected his prayer: and now there had come of it what had come. Yes, as Lady Chavasse sat there, she had the satisfaction of knowing that the work was hers. "A warmer climate?--would it restore him?" she exclaimed, turning her hot eyes on Mr. Duffham. "Had it been likely to do so, Lady Chavasse, I should have sent him to one long ago." She gathered her mantle of purple velvet about her as she rose up, and went out of the room in silence, giving Duffham her hand in token of friendship. Duffham opened the front-door, and was confronted by a tall footman--with a gold-headed cane and big white silk calves--who had been waiting in the air for his lady. She took the way to the Grange; the man and his protecting cane stepping grandly after her. * * * * * "Sir Geoffry Chavasse." Buried in her own reflections by the drawing-room fire, in the coming dusk of the winter's evening, Miss Layne thought her ears must have deceived her. But no. It was Sir Geoffry who advanced as the servant made the announcement; and she rose to meet him. Strangely her heart fluttered: but she had been learning a lesson in calmness for many years; he had too, perhaps; and they shook hands quietly as other people do. Sir Geoffry threw back his overcoat from his wasted form as he sat down. Wasted more than ever now. Some weeks have gone on since my lady's impromptu visit to Mr. Duffham's tea-table; winter is merging into spring; and the most sanguine could no longer indulge hope for Sir Geoffry.