‘Let me bring a physician to see you this afternoon,’ said Lucius; ‘there is something in this case which I hardly feel myself strong enough to cope with.’ ‘No,’ answered the patient doggedly; ‘I told you I would have no stranger come to stare at me. Cure me if you can, and if you can’t, leave it alone. I have little faith in medicine. I contrived to live sixty-five years without it, and the experience I have had of it in the sixty-sixth year has not been calculated to strengthen my belief in its efficacy.’ ‘Did you finish that last bottle of medicine?’ ‘No, there is a dose left.’ ‘Then I’ll take the bottle home with me,’ said Lucius, selecting the bottle from among two or three empty phials on the mantelshelf, ‘and make another change in your medicine.’ ‘It seems to me that you chop and change a good deal,’ said the patient testily. ‘But why take that bottle? You must know what you gave me.’ ‘I am not quite clear about it,’ answered Lucius, after a moment’s hesitation; ‘I may as well put the bottle in my pocket.’ ‘Do as you like. But don’t forget that I want an hour’s talk with you this evening.’ ‘You had better defer that till you are stronger. ‘That time may never come. No, I will defer nothing. What I have to say to you is of no small importance. It concerns your own interests, and I recommend you to hear it to-night.’ ‘I cannot consent to discuss any subject which may agitate you as you were agitated last night,’ said Lucius firmly. ‘This other subject will not agitate me. I can promise that.’ ‘On that condition I will hear whatever you may have to say.’ ‘Good. You will find it to your own advantage to obey me. Be with me at the same hour as you were last night.’ ‘I will. But as you are a trifle weaker to-day than you were yesterday, I should recommend you not to get up, except for an hour in the middle of the day, while your bed is being made.’ ‘Very well.’ Lucius left him, and in the corridor found himself face to face with Mrs. Wincher. ‘She has been listening, I daresay,’ he thought, having made up his mind that these Winchers were of the scorpion breed, and their long years of fidelity only a sham. ‘After all, dishonesty is only a matter of opportunity, and the domestic traitor must bide his time to betray.’ Mrs. Wincher’s manner and bearing were curiously changed since Lucius had last seen her. She no longer flung her head aloft; she no longer regarded him with looks of scorn. Her present air was that of extreme meekness; he thought he beheld traces of shame and contrition in her visage. ‘How do you find master this morning, sir?’ she asked. ‘Worse,’ Lucius answered shortly. ‘Dear, dear! that’s bad! And I’m sure it isn’t for want of care. I’m sure the beef-tea that I gave him used to be a jelly—that firm as you could cut it with a knife—though Miss Lucille did take the making of it out of my hands.’