‘Lucille,’ he said one evening, a few days after his interview with Geoffrey Hossack, as they paced the garden together in the dusk, ‘it seems to me that we are not quite so happy as we used to be. We do not talk so hopefully of the future; we have not such pleasant thoughts and fancies as we once had. Very often when I am speaking to you, I see your eyes fixed with a strange far-off look; as if you were thinking of something quite remote from the subject of our talk. Is there anything that troubles you, dear? Are you uneasy about your grandfather?’ ‘He does not seem so well as he did three weeks ago. He does not care about coming down-stairs now; the old weakness seems to have returned. And his appetite has fallen off again. I wish you would be a little more candid, Lucius,’ she said, looking at him earnestly. ‘You used to say he was improving steadily, and that you had great hopes of making him quite himself again before very long; now you hardly say anything, except to give me directions about diet.’ ‘Do you wish me to speak quite plainly, Lucille,’ asked Lucius seriously; ‘even if what I have to say should increase your anxiety?’ ‘Yes, yes; pray treat me like a woman, and not like a child. Remember what my life has been—how full of care and sorrow. I am not like a girl who has lived only in the sunshine. Tell me the plain truth, Lucius, however painful. You think my grandfather worse?’ ‘I do, Lucille, very much worse than I thought him three weeks ago. And what is more, I am obliged to confess myself puzzled by his present condition. I can find no cause for this backward progress, and yet I am watching the symptoms very closely. I have this case so deeply at heart, that I do not believe any one could do more with it than I. But if I do not see an improvement before many days are over, I shall seek advice from wider experience than my own. I will bring one of the greatest men in London to see your grandfather. A consultation may be unnecessary or useless, but it will be for our mutual satisfaction.’ ‘Yes,’ answered Lucille, ‘I have the strongest faith in your skill; but, as you say, it might be better to have farther advice. Poor grandpapa! It makes me wretched to see him suffer—to see him so weak and weary and restless, if not in absolute pain, and to be able to do so little for him.’ ‘You do all that love and watchfulness can do, dearest. By the way, you spoke of diet just now. That is a thing about which you cannot be too careful. We have to restore exhausted nature, to renovate a constitution almost worn out by hard usage. I should like to know all about the preparation of the broths and jellies you give your grandfather. Are they made by you, or by Mrs. Wincher?’ ‘Wincher makes the broth and beef-tea in an earthenware jar in the oven; I make the jellies with my own hands.’ ‘Are you quite sure of Wincher’s cleanliness and care?’