"You must see how ill she looks, Theresa." "She is not ill. At least, that I know of. She eats her dinner, and dresses, and goes out, and has company at home. I really had not observed that she was looking ill." "She talks of the heat," continued Mrs. Cleeve; "but that is all nonsense. Extreme heat may make a person thin, but it cannot make them sad and spiritless." "Lucy is neither sad nor spiritless--that I have noticed." "Perhaps you have not noticed, Theresa. You have so many out-of-door pursuits, you know. I suppose," continued Mrs. Cleeve, with some hesitation, and lowering her voice to a confidential tone as she put the question, "I suppose there is nothing wrong between her and her husband?" "Wrong in what way, do you mean?" rejoined Miss Blake. "Any misunderstanding or unpleasantness." "I should say _not_," returned Miss Blake, with some acrimony. "It is rather the other way. Lucy is blindly, absurdly infatuated with Sir Karl. If he boxed her on the one ear, she would offer him the other." "It cannot be that, then," sighed Mrs. Cleeve. "I only thought of it because there was nothing else I could think of. For I cannot help fancying, Theresa, that the malady is on her spirits, more than on her health. I--I wonder whether that ague-fever left unsuspected consequences behind it that are developing themselves now?" Theresa, her attention given to the employment in her hand--a cross she was working in gold thread to adorn some part or other of Mr. Cattacomb's canonicals--a great deal more than it was given to the conversation, allowed the doubt to pass undiscussed. Mrs. Cleeve had always been accustomed to worry herself over Lucy: Theresa supposed it was the habit of mothers to do so, who had only one daughter. So the subject of Lucy's looks dropped for the time. "What is that for?" resumed Mrs. Cleeve, directing her attention to the small gold cords. "This? Oh, a little ornament I am making. Please don't touch it, Mrs. Cleeve, or you will entangle the threads." Thus rebuked, Mrs. Cleeve sat for some moments in silence, inhaling the fresh air through the open window, and the perfume of the late flowers. The mignonette, in its large clusters, seemed as though it intended to bloom on until winter. "Theresa, how much longer do you intend to remain here?" she suddenly asked. "Your stay has been a very long one." Theresa was aware of that. She was slightly suspicious that Sir Karl and his wife had begun to think the same thing, though in their courtesy they were not likely to let it appear. In truth the matter was causing her some little reflection: for she would willingly have made the Court her permanent home. While Mr. Cattacomb remained at St. Jerome's, _she_ should remain. It might have been somewhat of a mistake to institute St. Jerome's, and to bring Mr. Cattacomb to it: Miss Blake could recognise it now: but as that step had been taken, she could only abide by it.