"Of course it may be anything," returned Lord Ralston, impatiently,--for even his easy temper was not proof against the bitterness of his disappointment,--he had so hungered and thirsted, poor fellow, for a sight of Mollie's sweet face. All these weeks he had been doing his duty nobly, and now he had looked for his reward. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he had said to himself that very morning. Would "this bud of love" which he had been nurturing so tenderly, have blossomed into "a beauteous flower" when they met again? Over and over again he had asked himself this question; but Mollie was ill, and all hope of an immediate answer was over. "It may be anything," he repeated. "But who is to look after her? There is only her father and that half-witted maid-of-all-work. There used to be some friend who nursed them when they were ill, but she is living somewhere in the country with an invalid lady. We must get a nurse. Do you know where their doctor lives?" But Althea shook her head. "No; but we can find out. Moritz, I think the best plan will be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace, and then I can tell Waveney exactly how things are; I will leave a line for Doreen and beg her to say nothing until my return." Then a look of intense relief crossed Moritz's face. "It is a good idea," he said, eagerly; "and I will go with you." And Althea made no objection to this. "It is a pity the carriage is out," she said, regretfully; "but George shall get us a cab. Now we will go and have some luncheon, and then I will get ready." But with both of them the meal was a pretence. Apprehension and worry deprived Moritz of all appetite, and Althea was so nervous and fluttered at the idea of encountering Everard in his own home, that she could scarcely eat a morsel. She rose as soon as possible, and left Moritz to finish his repast; but he preferred pacing the room. In spite of his vivacity and _gaieté-de-coeur_, his jaunty airs and cheerfulness, he was easily depressed. Any form of illness that attacked those he loved, preyed on his mind. When Gwendoline's little son was born, he was so anxious and despondent that Jack Compton, in spite of his own natural solicitude for his young wife's safety, laughed at him and told him "that he looked as melancholy as a gib cat." "The old chap was in the doldrums and no mistake," he said to Gwen afterwards. "I tell him I played the man twice as well as he. But he is a good old sort, too." And then, with awe and wonder, the young father regarded the small and crumpled and exceedingly red morsel of humanity, lying snugly within Gwen's arm. As they drove up to Cleveland Terrace they saw an unmistakable doctor's brougham before the door of Number Ten. Lord Ralston's swarthy complexion turned rather livid at the sight, but Althea only remarked, with composure, that they had come just at the right time.