Well, that subject was now disposed of, and Henry, with the directness of a trained economist, abruptly went into the main object of his call. There had been certain features about Nancy's delirium which had astonished and annoyed him, and he had come with the express purpose of discussing them should he find Nancy strong enough. He now decided that she was strong enough. "Do you realize that when your fever was high you talked at a great rate?" he asked. "I vaguely remember mumbling and grumbling." Henry did not relish his task, but he felt it to be his duty--and Henry had never been one to shirk his duty. "You talked a great deal about this Tom Reynolds," he said. "Yes?" Nancy was aware that she coloured. She was aware also of a sudden sinking sensation, not dissimilar to the one that comes from a too rapid drop in an elevator. So Henry had come to her at the first possible moment to protest against "this Tom Reynolds." "He has had a bad recitation," she thought, "and now he is going to take it out on me," and then she called her brother a hard and inelegant name, as people will when angry with their dearest relatives. Had Nancy been of a satirical nature she might have made something of her brother's adoption of Freudian methods; but she was not, and she knew only direct-fire warfare. "Nancy," Henry went on, leaning towards her, "surely you are not in love with that man?" Had Tom been a head hunter with tin cans in his ears, Nancy would have loved him at that moment. "Yes, I am," she said. Henry stared at her. It was clear she meant what she said. Then he glanced at the letter and the book that lay in her lap, as people will notice small things at such times. He guessed in whose handwriting the letter was, and--the book was _Sonnets from the Portuguese_! She had even taken to sentimental rubbish! "Oh Nancy, can't you see that he is not worthy of you? Who are his people? Where is he from? I wouldn't give _that_ for his future here. He's lazy, and he's filled you up on a lot of poetry. Nancy, think well of it before it's too late." She was gazing out the window, hardly hearing him. She had confessed aloud, before Henry, that she loved Tom. Henry was going on. "If you won't think of yourself, perhaps you can think of Henry Third? What is to become of him if you go?" Nancy turned to look at him. She felt giddy now, and she thought she was going to cry. It would not do, however, to make a scene, when up to this point she had acquitted herself so well. "You mean that I should give up my life to look after your son?" "Please don't be melodramatic. We know one another so well it isn't necessary. I am not asking you to give up your life. I am asking you not to throw it away, and in the meantime you have certain definite obligations here. You are more than an aunt to Henry. Life here with him will be far better for you than being the wife of that uncertain boy."