"No, madame—miladi: I believe not.
When Paul took him his chocolate at nine
o'clock he said that he was not to be waited
for at breakfast. Ah—h—h!"

The woman gave a long sigh, so elaborate,
and so evidently meant to attract attention,
that Veronica asked, "What is the matter
with you, Julienne?"

"With me, miladi? Nothing! But with
Sir John——ah—h—h!"

It seemed to Veronica that her heart
stood still for a moment, and then went
on beating again with a great leap that
sickened her. As usual she resented the
painful sensation and revenged herself on
the maid. Veronica was a perfect conductor
of pain. She transmitted it instantly to the
nearest recipient.

"Julienne, you are insupportable! How
dare you startle me in that manner? What
do you mean? Are you crazy?"

"A thousand pardons, miladi, no: I am
not crazy. But—"

Veronica saw the woman's face in the
glass. It was a little sullen, but through
the sullenness pierced an eager, self-important
look. She had something to say, and
would not allow herself to be baulked of
saying it by resentment at her mistress's
asperity.

"Well? Is Sir John worse? Is
anything the matter? Do you know
anything?"

"Miladi, I know this much: I saw the
doctor who has been coming every morning
— every morning—- so quietly slipping in and
out, / watched him well—I saw him this
morning, but not alone. No, miladi, there
was another with him—a consultation you
see! And as they were going away I heard
them talking; and though I did not
understand every word, I have Italian enough
to make out that they thought it a very bad
case. And the new doctor said to the old
one as they went out, 'I give him a month.'
Then the other muttered something, and
the new doctor said again, 'Ah, but in this
case the constitution is shattered.' And then
he said—something else: I don't know
what, miladi." Julienne checked herself
just in time to avoid repeating to "miladi"
sundry criticisms respecting Sir John's
temper, manners, and mode of life, which
were by no means of a flattering nature.

It did not strike Veronica that the maid's
mode of revealing her news, or indeed the
fact of her revealing it at all, was a proof
that "miladi's" affection for Sir John was
not deemed very tender or devoted. Julienne
had obviously no fear that she might be
dealing a heavy blow to her mistress's
heart in repeating the verdict of the
physicians. But that consideration did not
occur to Veronica.

Her first fear, that Paul had watched her,
traced her to the Villa Reale, and revealed
what he had heard to Sir John, was driven
out; but it was only driven out by a
second, and a greater apprehension. Sir
John was very ill; despaired of; dying! She
allowed the maid to coil up her hair, keeping,
herself, a dead silence. Her cheeks
were very pale. The face that fronted her
in the glass was a strangely different face
from that which had been used to be
mirrored in her old bedroom at home. The
rich colouring which had been its most striking
charm had faded in a great measure.
Under her eyes were dark tints that made
their brightness ghastly. The whole face
seemed to have fallen. There were even
some haggard lines around the mouth. Her
youth still asserted itself in the satin texture
of her skin, and the rich abundance of her
raven hair. She was still beautiful. But she
was no longer that embodiment of Hebe- like,
gladsome beauty that she had been a year
ago.

She stared at her own image with a
puckered brow, and pained compression of
the lips. "I look old!" she thought. But
she said no syllable.

"Dame! She seems quite to take it to
heart!" thought the maid, much surprised.
"Can she be uneasy about his will? But
these great folks are always provided for
by the contract of marriage." Mademoiselle
Julienne had lived in very "good" families.

After breakfast, Veronica went herself
to Sir John's apartments to inquire how he
was. The answer returned by Paul was that
Sir John found himself tolerably well; and
would be glad to speak to miladi if she would
give herself the trouble of coming to his
dressing-room in about half an hour. That
half hour was a terrible one to Veronica.

Her thoughts seemed to be hurt which
way soever she turned them, like a bruised
body to which the slightest movement is
pain. If he had sent for her to reveal the
desperate condition of his health, that would
be terrible. But, on the other hand, if that
were not the object of this interview—if she
were to be accused, reproached, how should
she meet it? Resentment and defiance
seemed her only resources. Reproach from
him! That would be too monstrous! And
yet the idea of defiance was frightful to her.
It would be decisive, irrevocable.

Veronica had a constitutional antipathy