The young doctor was a little puzzled and rather offended by Sir Isaac’s relapse. He seemed to consider it incorrect and was on the whole disposed to blame Lady Harman. He might have had such a seizure, the young doctor said, later, but not now. He would be thrown back for some weeks, then he would begin to mend again and then whatever he said, whatever he did, Lady Harman must do nothing to contradict him. For a whole day Sir Isaac lay inert, in a cold sweat. He consented once to attempt eating, but sickness overcame him. He seemed so ill that all the young doctor’s reassurances could not convince Lady Harman that he would recover. Then suddenly towards evening his arrested vitality was flowing again, the young doctor ceased to be anxious for his own assertions, the patient could sit up against a pile of pillows and breathe and attend to affairs. There was only one affair he really seemed anxious to attend to. His first thought when he realized his returning strength was of his wife. But the young doctor would not let him talk that night. Next morning he seemed still stronger. He was restless and at last demanded Lady Harman again. This time the young doctor transmitted the message. She came to him forthwith and found him, white-faced and unfamiliar-looking, his hands gripping the quilt and his eyes burning with hatred. “You thought I’d forgotten,” was his greeting. “Don’t argue,” signalled the doctor from the end of Sir Isaac’s bed. “I’ve been thinking it out,” said Sir Isaac. “When you were thinking I was too ill to think.... I know better now.” He sucked in his lips and then went on. “You’ve got to send for old Crappen,” he said. “I’m going to alter things. I had a plan. But that would have been letting you off too easy. See? So—you send for old Crappen.” “What do you mean to do?” “Never you mind, my lady, never you mind. You send for old Crappen.” She waited for a moment. “Is that all you want me to do?” “I’m going to make it all right about those Hostels. Don’t you fear. You and your Hostels! You shan’t _touch_ those hostels ever again. Ever. Mrs. Pembrose go! Why! You ain’t worthy to touch the heel of her shoe! Mrs. Pembrose!” He gathered together all his forces and suddenly expelled with rousing force the word he had already applied to her on the day of the intercepted letter. He found it seemed great satisfaction in the sound and taste of it. He repeated it thrice. “Zut,” cried the doctor, “Sssh!” Then Sir Isaac intimated his sense that calm was imperative. “You send for Crappen,” he said with a quiet earnestness. She had become now so used to terms of infamy during the last year or so, so accustomed to forgive them as part of his suffering, that she seemed not to hear the insult. “Do you want him at once?” she asked. “Shall I telegraph?” “Want him at once!” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Yes, you fool—yes. Telegraph. (Phew.) Telegraph.... I mustn’t get angry, you know. You—telegraph.”