Lady Mary’s expression scarcely changed when Sir Timothy raised his voice.  She turned, however, at the foot of the staircase, and spoke to him again.

“Let me just go and give the order for my things to be packed, Timothy, and tell Ash to go and find out about the trains, and I will return and listen to whatever you wish—­I will, indeed.  I could not pay proper attention to anything until I knew that was being done.”

Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak.  He bowed his head, and the slender figure passed swiftly up the stairs.

Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and down the empty hall, and felt his pulse.  The slow, steady throb reassured him.  He opened the door of the study.

“John,” said Sir Timothy, “would you kindly come out here and speak to me for a moment?  Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to await me a little longer?  You will find the London papers there.”

“I have them,” said Dr. Blundell, from the armchair by the study fire.

John Crewys closed the door behind him, and looked rather anxiously at his cousin.  It struck him that Sir Timothy had lost some of his ruddy colour, and that his face looked drawn and old.

But the squire placed himself with his back to the log fire, and made an effort to speak in his voice of everyday.  His slightly pompous, patronizing manner returned upon him.

“You are doubtless accustomed, John, in the course of your professional work,” he said, “to advise in difficult matters.  You come among us a stranger—­and unprejudiced.  Will you—­er—­give me the benefit of your opinion?”

“To the best of my ability,” said John.  He paused, and added gently, “I am sorry for this fresh trouble that has come upon you.”

“That is the subject on which I mean to consult you.  Do you consider that—­that her husband or her child should stand first in a woman’s eyes?”

“Her husband, undoubtedly,” said John, readily, “but—­”

“But what?” said Sir Timothy, impatiently.  A gleam of satisfaction had broken over his heavy face at his cousin’s reply.

“I speak from a man’s point of view,” said John.  “Woman—­and possibly Nature—­may speak differently.”

“Your judgment, however, coincides with mine, which is all that matters,” said Sir Timothy.  He did not perceive the twinkle in John’s eyes at this reply.  “In my opinion there are only two ways of looking at every question—­the right way and the wrong way.”

“My profession teaches me,” said John, “that there are as many different points of view as there are parties to a case.”

“Then—­from my point of view,” said Sir Timothy, with an air of waving all other points of view away as irrelevant, “since my wife, very naturally, desires to see her son again before he sails, am I justified in allowing her to set off in ignorance of the ordeal that awaits me?”

“Good heavens, no!” cried John.  “Should the operation prove unsuccessful, you would be entailing upon her a lifelong remorse.”