A dead silence followed this remark, during which the doctor, after glaring at Sir Reginald over the edge of his tumbler, swallowed the remainder of his whisky and water, and, buttoning up his coat and taking his hat, briskly prepared to depart. Sir Reginald’s dry lips refused to speak; large drops of perspiration stood like beads on his brow; the veins in his hand, where he was grasping the back of a chair, resembled thick cords. “Ah,” thought the doctor, complacently, “he does care. However, he had no business to leave her,” he said to himself, as he feasted his eye on his victim with an air of tranquil enjoyment. “She may,” he proceeded aloud, “come round with care and indulgence of every kind; she must never be crossed, thwarted, or agitated, and always have her own way. (Looks as if he liked his own way.) I’ll come round in a day or two and see how she is going on. Good-bye.” “Wait a second,” said Sir Reginald vehemently, detaining him with one hand; “you cannot go like this. If my wife is so seriously ill, you must leave me some more fixed directions.” “She is not actually ill, only threatened with illness. As for directions, I say watch her and guard her as the very apple of your eye. She nearly died when that child was born, as I daresay you know. A sudden chill, a bad cold, would carry her off; she has no stamina.” Exit. “What a night this has been,” thought Sir Reginald, looking at the clock wearily; “first I am told that the child is dying, now my wife.” He drew a chair to the table, and, leaning his elbows on it, buried his face in his hands. “Anything but _this_,” he said to himself; “after all I have gone through can _this_ be coming?” For more than a quarter of an hour he remained in the same attitude, wrestling with the bitterest anguish he had ever known. The door, which was ajar, was softly pushed open and Alice came in. “Well,” she said, “what does he say; is it all right?” Then catching sight of her husband’s face, she seized his arm. “Tell me the worst at once,” she gasped, steadying herself by her other hand on the back of his chair. “Don’t hide it from me, for God’s sake!” “There is nothing to be told,” he replied, making a valiant effort to speak and look as usual. “Maurice was not nearly as ill as we imagined; he will be all right to-morrow; I assure you there is no cause for alarm,” he added earnestly, “none whatever.” “You are sure? You are not saying this out of mistaken kindness? It is true?” “Quite true,” he repeated, pushing back his chair and standing up. Alice gazed fixedly at her husband; he was deathly pale, and had a half-stunned look, and surely when she first saw him his thick black lashes were _wet_. “Then what was the matter with you just now?” she inquired. “Won’t you tell me? Won’t you let me share your trouble after all you said to-night?” “I can’t. At least not now,” he stammered.