The room was a bed-room and contained a double bed. In the window, where dangled the card, was a dressing-table, and on it, undisguised, the paraphernalia of a woman's toilet. Edward Caspar lay in bed, breathing shortly, his face pinched with physical and spiritual suffering. Beside the bed was a chair and on it a manuscript. Mr. Trupp glanced at the inscription--_The Philosophy of Mysticism. Part I. The History of Animism_. "You've fuf--fuf--found us out early," gasped the young man with a ghastly smile. "Nothing very terrible," said Mr. Trupp. "I'm not ashamed of it," answered the other. "She's a good woman. Only my f--father's a bit old-fashioned. You see, I'm the only son." "I don't suppose he knows," grunted Mr. Trupp. "No, he don't know." "And I don't see any reason why he should," continued the doctor. Edward Caspar raised his wistful eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Trupp," he stuttered in his pathetic and dependent way. "Thank you. Very good of you, I'm sure. We're fond of each other, Anne and I. I owe her a lot. And my father's getting an old man." On the mantelpiece was the photograph of a lady in court dress. Mr. Trupp studied the long and refined face. There was no mistaking the type. It was Beauregard all through, exhibiting the same sheep-like contour as that of the man in the bed, the same unquenchable spiritual longings as the Cavalier in the room below--added in this case to that exasperating weakness which provokes a pagan world to blows. "Is that your mother?" asked Mr. Trupp. "Yes." "She's like you." "She's supposed to be." When the doctor left the sick room and went downstairs he was aware that the door of the sitting-room was open. The woman was inside, standing duster in hand, under the picture of the Cavalier, whose eyes seemed now to the young doctor faintly ironical. Mr. Trupp entered quietly and shut the door behind him. "We're married," she said, blurting the words at him. "I know," he grunted. She looked at him suspiciously. "Did he tell you?" "That you were married?" "Yes." "No." "Who did?" fiercely. "Your face." She relaxed slowly. "You mean I don't look the sort to stand any nonsense." She nodded, grimly amused. "You're right. That's me. I'm chapel." Then she let herself go. "I'm fond of Ned," she flashed. "I wouldn't have married him else, for all his family. He's reel gentry, Ned is. I don't mean his mother being Lady Blanche, I'm not that kind. I mean in him--here." She put her hand on her chest. "I know I'm not his sort. But I can help him. And he needs help. Think any of _them_ could support him up?" with scorn. "Too flabby by half. Can't support emselves, some of em. Lays on their backs in bed and drinks tea out of a spout before they can get up o mornings. I know. My sister's in service." She stopped abruptly. "What do you think about it yourself? Straight now."