“Well, he took her down to Brighton, and she had a bad relapse of some kind. I was there on Saturday last, and I saw her. Her carriage had stopped at a shop I was coming out of. I give you my honour I had to look at her three times before I was sure of her; she has lost every particle of colour and flesh and beauty. She might be thirty-five, and gives one the idea of a person who had seen a ghost, and never got over it. Yes”--in answer to the expression of his listeners’ eyes--“it’s rather awful. She used to be so pretty; now she has death in her face.” “Are you in earnest, Ruscombe?” “Why, of course I am. Old West is in a deadly funk, and taking her off to Australia, as a sort of forlorn hope. But he will never get her there alive.” “Who says so?” he asked sharply. “I thought you did not know her, man! The doctor who attends her happens to be my brother-in-law; and, of course, we are all interested in the _beauty_. He has a very poor opinion----Oh, are you off? The fellow is mad. He hasn’t touched a morsel. What the dickens!--Oh, ho! Now, what does _that_ mean--he is button-holing the old squatter himself?” “No, Wynne, not seen you for ages,” Mr. West was saying. “I never come to the club. No spirits for anything. My daughter is ill--got a sort of relapse. The doctors say that she has some trouble on her mind--must have had a shock. Extraordinary case! She has never had a care in her life!” Mr. Wynne made no answer, and looked down. “She can’t get up any strength, and--and takes no notice of anything, does not want to recover, and is just fading away!” “Ah, that’s bad! I suppose you have the best advice that is possible?” What a nice, kind fellow Wynne was! When one was in trouble he quite took it to heart too; he appeared--or was it the bad light--actually grave and anxious. “I’m taking her to Sydney, to try the effect of the sea and change; it’s just a chance--a last chance.” “And when do you start?” he asked, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his brow. “The day after to-morrow, in the _Victoria_. We go from Tilbury Docks; as she couldn’t stand the journey across, and, in fact, the more sea the better. A lady friend is very kindly coming as her companion, just for the trip; but Madeline and I will not return to England for a year or two. I’ll see how her native climate will suit her.” “Yes; I hope sincerely that it will,” said Wynne. There was an atmosphere of sympathy in his vicinity that had the effect of compelling confidences. “I think the London racketing knocked her up, and I’m never going to have a town house again. When I come back, I shall buy some ancient historical mansion, the seat of some old family that have died out, and restore it. That is, of course, if Madeline----” He left his listener to fill in the sentence. “Yes,” rather absently. “I dare say you’ll be married and settled by the time I see you again.” “I am not likely to marry,” he returned quietly.