‘That’s one kind of strength--a purely negative kind, of which you women constantly possess so much. Her pride has helped her through that, and an obstinate determination not to be dragged down by her husband to his level. She has brains, so of course the suffering must have been much more acute than if she had been a mere block of wood. But people can so often be strong through every kind of cruelty and hardness, and yet collapse at the first word of affection or sympathy--especially that kind of sympathy, of one sex to the other.’ ‘Oh Richard! The first word!’ ‘I am saying nothing. I say, if she is to be helped out of this, it must be by her own strength.’ ‘I wish Hans were in the Caucasus now, and would stay there,’ she said, with a bitter, uneasy resentment. ‘But he isn’t. And the Caucasus is a long way off. Here we are, at your house, and here is Signor Oriole walking about the garden.’ Signor Giuseppe was pacing about a round sweep of gravel in front of the house, his hands clasped behind him, his head slightly bowed, his eyes fixed upon the marks left in the gravel by his own footsteps. He was so lost in thought that Minna had to speak his name before he noticed them. ‘You have returned?’ he said, smiling; and then, looking round, his face suddenly became shadowed. ‘Riemann?’ he asked. ‘Where is he?’ ‘Here at your service,’ replied Hans, just behind them, and Minna, at least, instantly began to be thoroughly ashamed of what she called her own unworthy suspicions. She spoke to Hans with a cordiality which was almost eager. They lingered a little out-of-doors, still enjoying the beauty of the night, and loath to leave it. Then the whole party went into the house. CHAPTER XXII. In spite of all the care bestowed upon him, and of his own unrelaxing efforts to fulfil his doctor’s promises that he should get well, Marchmont’s health did not improve. There was not, said the medical men, the least real danger to his life; the probability was that, as he grew more helpless, his hold on his life would grow stronger. ‘In fact,’ said Mr. Brownrigg to Fulvia, in a private interview after Marchmont had had a very bad night, ‘there is no reason why he should not live to be an old man. He will have every care and consideration; he has no worries; yes, he will settle down into a permanent invalid, but not one to whose life there is any imminent danger.’ ‘Oh, yes, he will have every care and consideration,’ said Fulvia dreamily. She smiled as Mr. Brownrigg rose to take his leave. All the gaiety and visitors had been strictly forbidden. The guest-chambers were empty, the gardens and park untenanted. The house was more like the barrack of a regiment of dead soldiers than ever.