"If we cannot get her out of this place, she has not another month to live. She must have change of air, and change of scene and company, or she is done for. She has not a chance ... and that damned picture!" he vociferated, shaking his fist at the easel, "that confounded portrait! the sight of it is killing her by inches. Nothing will induce her to part with it ... she was bent on bringing it here.... I tell you I have a very good mind to fling it out of the window. Poor woman!" he added, calming down, "it distresses me to see her. The wound is too deep, we can do nothing to cauterise it." "Listen to me, my dear doctor," said Lorimer, "between ourselves Dora is carrying this thing much too far. I know the story from beginning to end. It is absurdly ridiculous! Philip has, so to speak, nothing to ask forgiveness about, unless it be for having neglected his wife for an invention that absorbed all his thoughts." "My dear fellow, when a woman of Mrs. Grantham's sort loves her husband, she exaggerates everything. The slightest inattention becomes to her a subject for deep grief, a look of indifference causes her horrible suffering. Little things take on gigantic proportions. A man should surround with the most constant care and affection a woman who loves him as our friend here loved her husband." "But, after all, a busy man can't pass all his time at the feet of his wife. There is the morning paper, you know, and his correspondence, and a thousand other everyday occupations. Give him a chance! Happy the wife who only has an art or an invention to be jealous of! Isn't it enough for a woman to know that she is loved, by the substantial proofs of affection that are given her?" "No," replied the doctor; "for us men it suffices to know that we are loved, but with women the case is quite different. They love to have it told them--some of them so much that they could hear it from morning to night and night to morning, without ever growing weary of the tale!" "Mistress is coming in a moment," said Hobbs to Lorimer. "Look here, Hobbs," said the doctor, "how does Mrs. Grantham manage to get a living here? How does she keep you and herself? It is perhaps an indiscreet question, but it is important that we should know just how matters stand." "Don't you trouble about that, doctor," replied Hobbs. "We pay our way and save money. Why! my mistress sold a picture yesterday." "Really!--and for how much?" "Well, sir, you are getting a little inquisitive. For twenty-five pounds, if you must know." "Twenty-five pounds!" said the doctor, winking at Lorimer. "Well, and how much is your rent?" "Thirty pounds a year. Don't be alarmed about us, we don't spend all the money we make." "We make! Oh, I see, you work too?" "I should think I did, sir; I clean the rooms, I do the cooking" ... "And what about your wages?"