‘Then he became ill--you know. I had borne a great many of these illnesses before. I don’t know that this was any worse than the others had been, or any different. It was much the same as usual, I believe. It was I who was changed, and to whom everything which had so far got to seem deadly indifferent, beneath the trouble of noticing, now seemed like stabs, like stings, like mortal insults and wounds--intolerable tortures which no one was called upon to endure, who could escape from them. I quite made up my mind. I was perfectly reckless. I resolved to do it. I had to put off a promised meeting with Hans from the morning of that day--you know which--till the evening. I told him to be at the pond after nine. I did not know what would happen before then. The doctor came--you know, the man from London. I knew what he would say. ‘I did not know what he would do, whether he would stay all night at the Hall, or go to Mr. Brownrigg’s, or go home again. I had ordered a room to be got ready for him, in case he should stay. He decided in the end to dine with me and Mr. Brownrigg, whom I invited to remain, and to stay all night at Mr. Brownrigg’s. There was nothing interesting at the Hall, as he soon saw. They saw my husband, and had a consultation, and then called me, and went through all that solemn farce again which they always play. He was very ill, but they did not think him in immediate danger--the chief thing was to keep his mind tranquil, and let him feel as little depressed as possible--amuse him, in short, as well as might be! Padre mio, I ask you, what did I, what could I, care whether he were tranquil or agitated, cheerful or depressed? I said nothing to them, of course. They knew all about it. ‘They cast down their eyes as they spoke, and did not look at each other, nor very much at me. I said yes and no, and felt such an immense ennui--indescribable. Then we dined together. They knew all about the skeleton belonging to me, which was not even in a cupboard, but quite visible, in a room only a few doors away; but we talked and laughed. Is there any moment in our lives in which we cannot talk and laugh? Sir Simon Sykes is quite witty; he told us some most laughable stories about patients and doctors in London, at which even I was amused, and which made Mr. Brownrigg cry, “Capital! capital!” and laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks. Dinner lasted rather a long time. I intended to go to him before I went away for ever. At last they had gone away, and then I turned into his room, to give the usual look round, so as to get it done with, without seeming remarkable. It was nearly ten o’clock. “In a few minutes,” I thought, “all will be settled, and I can go.”