‘Yes, sir, there is. The poor little dear has took the scarlatina. Where she could have took it, I can’t imagine; for it’s not in this street: indeed, we’re very free from everything except measles in this part of the town; and they’re everywhere, as you may say, where there’s children. But the little girl has took the scarlatina somehow, and Mrs. Bertram’s dreadful down-hearted about it. The poor child’s got it rather bad, I grant you; but then, as I tell her mar, it’s only scarlatina: those things ending with a “tina” are never dangerous—it isn’t as if it was scarlet-fever.’ ‘You are sure the child is in no danger?’ cried Geoffrey anxiously; not that he cared for children in the abstract; but _her_ child—a priceless treasure, doubtless—_that_ must not be imperilled. ‘No, sir; indeed I don’t think as there’s any danger. I’ll allow the fever’s been very high, and the child has been brought down by it; but the doctor hasn’t hinted at danger. He is to look in again this evening.’ ‘He comes twice a day, does he? That looks as if the case were serious.’ ‘It was Mrs. Bertram’s wish, sir. Feeling anxious like, she asked him.’ Geoffrey was silent for a few minutes, meditating. If he could establish some kind of _rapport_ between himself and these people, it would be something gained: he would feel himself nearer to his beloved in her affliction. Alas, that she should be sorrowful, and he powerless to comfort her; so much a stranger to her, that any expression of sympathy would seem an impertinence! ‘I have heard Mrs. Bertram sing a great many times,’ he said, ‘and have been charmed with her singing. I am deeply interested in her (as a musical amateur), and in anything that concerns her welfare. I shall venture to call again to-morrow evening, to inquire how the little girl is going on. But pray do not mention me to Mrs. Bertram; I am quite unknown to her, and the idea that a stranger had expressed an interest in her might be displeasing. I’ll take half-a-dozen pairs of gloves.’ He threw down a sovereign—a delightful coin, which not often rang upon that humble counter. The widow emptied her till in order to find change for this lavish customer. ‘Half-a-dozen gloves, at fifteenpence, seven-and-sixpence. Thank you, sir. Is there anything in socks or pocket-handkerchiefs I can show you?’ ‘Not to-night, thanks. I’ll look at some handkerchiefs to-morrow,’ said Geoffrey; and departed, rejoiced to find that by the expenditure of a few shillings he could keep himself informed of Mrs. Bertram’s movements. He went straight to the best fruiterer in the town, whose shop was on the point of closing. Here he bought some hot-house grapes, at fourteen shillings a pound, which he dispatched at once to Mrs. Bertram’s lodging. He had sent her his tribute of choice flowers continually, in the course of his long pursuit, but she had never deigned to wear a blossom of his sending.