“And why shouldn’t it, please?”

“Because she is much too young for him—­and Philip is a tired man.  Haven’t you seen that, Cynthy?  Before you knew him, Philip had exhausted his emotions—­that’s my reading of him.  I don’t for a moment believe his wife was the only one, if what Geoffrey said of her, and what one guesses, is true.  She would never have contented him.  And now it’s done.  If he ever marries now, it will be for peace—­not passion.  As I said before, Cynthy—­and I mean no offence—­your chances are better than they were.”

Cynthia winced and protested again, but all the same she was secretly soothed by her odd sister’s point of view.  They began to discuss the situation at the Rectory,—­how Alice Alcott, their old friend, with her small domestic resources, could possibly cope with it, if a long illness developed.

“Either the woman will die, or she will be divorced,” said Georgina trenchantly.  “And as soon as they know she isn’t going to die, what on earth will they do with her?”

As she spoke they were passing along the foot of the Rectory garden.  The Rectory stood really on the edge of the park, where it bordered on the highroad; and their own cottage was only a hundred yards beyond.  There were two figures walking up and down in the garden.  The Welwyns identified them at once as the Rector and his sister.

Cynthia stopped.

“I shall go and ask Alice if we can do anything for her.”

She made for the garden gate that opened on the park and called softly.  The two dim figures turned and came towards her.  It was soon conveyed to the Alcotts that the Welwyns shared their knowledge, and a conversation followed, almost in whispers under a group of lilacs that flung round them the scents of the unspoilt summer.  Alice Alcott, to get a breath of air, had left her patient in the charge of their old housemaid, for a quarter of an hour, but must go back at once and would sit up all night.  A nurse was coming on the morrow.

Then, while Georgina employed her rasping tongue on Mr. Alcott, Cynthia and the Rector’s sister conferred in low tones about various urgent matters—­furniture for the nurse’s room, sheets, pillows, and the rest.  The Alcotts were very poor, and the Rectory had no reserves.

“Of course, we could send for everything to Beechmark,” murmured Miss Alcott.

“Why should you?  It is so much further.  We will send in everything you want.  What are we to call this—­this person?” said Cynthia.

“Madame Melegrani.  It is the name she has passed by for years.”

“You say she is holding her own?”

“Just—­with strychnine and brandy.  But the heart is very weak.  She told Dr. Ramsay she had an attack of flu last week—­temperature up to 104.  But she wouldn’t give in to it—­never even went to bed.  Then came the excitement of travelling down here and the night in the park.  This is the result.  It makes me nervous to think that we shan’t have Dr. Ramsay to-morrow.  His partner is not quite the same thing.  But he is going to London with Lord Buntingford.”