Buntingford lifted him up, and carried him to Zelie, who was in a neighbouring room.  She had brought with her some of the coloured bricks, and “nests” of Japanese boxes which generally amused him.  He was soon sitting on the floor, aimlessly shuffling the bricks, and apparently happy.  As his father was returning to the sickroom a note was put into his hand by the Rector.  It contained these few words—­“Don’t make final arrangements with the Ramsays till you have seen me.  Think I could propose something you would like better.  Shall be here all the evening.  Yours affectionately—­Cynthia.”

He had just thrust it into his pocket, when the Rector drew him aside at the head of the stairs, while the two doctors were with the patient.

“I don’t want to interfere with any of your arrangements,” whispered the Rector, “but I think perhaps I ought to tell you that Mrs. Ramsay is no great housewife.  She is a queer little flighty thing.  She spends her time in trying to write plays and bothering managers.  There’s no harm in her, and he’s very fond of her.  But it is an untidy, dirty little house!  And nothing ever happens at the right time.  My sister said I must warn you.  She’s had it on her mind—­as she’s had a good deal of experience of Mrs. Ramsay.  And I believe Lady Cynthia has another plan.”

Buntingford thanked him, remembering opportunely that when he had proposed to Ramsay to take the boy into his house, the doctor had accepted with a certain hesitation, which had puzzled him.  “I will go over and see my cousin when I can be spared.”

But a sudden call from the sickroom startled them both.  Buntingford hurried forward.

When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deep old-fashioned chair propped up by pillows.  She had been supplied with the simplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a blue cotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector’s sister was often accustomed to do her morning’s work.  There was a marked incongruity between the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, a touch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer.  The face, even in its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellect and its force.  Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyes meeting hers.  She motioned to him.

“Send them all away.”

The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of them remaining in the room below.  Buntingford came to sit close by her.

“They say I shall kill myself if I talk,” she said in her gasping whisper.  “It doesn’t matter.  I must talk!  So—­you don’t doubt the boy?” Her large black eyes fixed him intently.

“No.  I have no doubts—­that he is my son.  But his condition is very piteous.  I have asked a specialist to come down.”

There was a gleam of scorn in her expression.

“That’ll do no good.  I suppose—­you think—­we neglected the boy. Niente.  We did the best we could.  He was under a splendid man—­in Naples—­as good as any one here.  He told me nothing could be done—­and nothing can be done.”