The Contessa gave a little shiver, and drew about her the loose shawl she wore. "What can we say in such a case? It is not for us, it is for those around us. It is a risk for so many----" "My aunt," said Sir Tom, "would be her natural ally; but I know Lady Randolph too well to think of that. And there is Jock, whom we are compelled to send away. We shall be like two crows all alone in the house." "Is it this you told me of, fever?" cried Bice, turning to Jock. "But it is I that will go--oh, this moment! It is no tr-rouble. I can sit up. I never am sleepy. I am so strong nothing hurts me. I will go directly, now." "You!" they all cried, but the Contessa's tones were most high. She made a protest full of indignant virtue. "Do you think," she said, "if I had but myself to think of that I would not fly to her? But, child in your position! _fiancee_ only to-day--with all to do, all to think of, how could I leave you? Oh, it is impossible; my good Lucy, who is never unreasonable, she will know it, she will understand. Besides, to what use, my Bice? She has nurses for day and night. She has her dear husband, her good husband, to be with her. What does a woman want more? You would be _de trop_. You would be out of place. It would be a trouble to them. It would be a blame to me. And you would take it, and bring it back and spread it, Bice--and perhaps Lord Montjoie----" Bice looked round her bewildered from one to another. "Should I be _de trop_?" she said, turning to Sir Tom with anxious eyes. Sir Tom looked at her with an air of singular emotion. He laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder: "_De trop_? no; never in my house. But that is not the question. Lucy will be cheered when she knows that you wanted to come. But what the Contessa says is true; there are plenty of nurses--and my wife--has me, if I am any good; and we would not have you run any risk----" "In her position!" cried the Contessa; "_fiancee_ only to-day. She owes herself already to Lord Montjoie, who would never consent, never; it is against every rule. Speak to her, _mon ami_, speak to her; she is a girl who is capable of all. Tell her that now it is thought criminal, that one does not risk one's self and others. She might bring it here, if not to herself, to me, Montjoie, the domestics." The Contessa sank into a chair and began fanning herself; then got up again and went towards the girl clasping her hands. "My sweetest," she cried, "you will not be _entetee_, and risk everything. We shall have news, good news, every morning, three, four times a day."