In the little parlour wizened Meshach sat by the hob as he always sat, warming one hand at the fire, and looking round sideways at the tall visitors in their rich evening attire.  Leonora heard Twemlow say something about a heart attack, and the thick hard veins on Aunt Hannah’s wrist.

‘Ay!’ Meshach went on, employing the old dialect, a sign with him of unusual agitation.  ’I brought Dr. Hawley with me, he was at yon show.  And when us got here Hannah was lying on th’ floor, just there, with her head on this ‘ere hearthrug.  Susan, th’ woman, told us as th’ missis said she felt as if she were falling down, and then down her falls.  She was staring hard at th’ ceiling, with eyes fit to burst, and her face as white as a sheet.  Doctor lifts her up and puts her in a chair.  Bless us!  How her did gasp!  And her lips were blue.  “Hannah!” I says.  Her heard but her couldna’ answer.  Her limbs were all of a tremble.  Then her sighed, and fetched up a long breath or two.  “Where am I, Meshach?” her says, “what’s amiss?” Doctor told her for stick her tongue out, and her could do that, and he put a candle to her eyes.  Her’s in bed now.  Susan’s sitting with her.’

‘I’ll go up and see if I can do anything,’ said Leonora, rising.

‘No,’ Meshach stopped her.  ’You’ll happen excite her.  Doctor said her was to go to sleep, and he’s to send in a soothing draught.  There’s no danger—­not now—­not till next time.  Her mun take care, mun Hannah.’

‘Then it is the heart?’ Leonora asked.

‘Ay!  It’s the heart.’

Twemlow and Leonora sat silent, embarrassed in the little parlour with its antimacassars, its stiff chairs, its high mantelpiece, and the glass partition which seemed to swallow up like a pit the rays from the hissing gas-jet over the table.  The image of the diminutive frail creature concealed upstairs obsessed them, and Leonora felt guilty because she had been unwittingly absorbed in the gaiety of the opera while Aunt Hannah was in such danger.

‘I doubt I munna’ tap that again,’ Meshach remarked with a short dry plaintive laugh, pointing to the pewter platter on the mantelpiece by means of which he was accustomed to summon his sister when he wanted her.

The visitors looked at each other; Leonora’s eyes were moist.

‘But isn’t there anything I can do, uncle?’ she demanded.

‘I’ll see if her’s asleep.  Sit thee still,’ said Meshach, and he crept out of the room, and up the creaking stair.

‘Poor old fellow!’ Twemlow murmured, glancing at his watch.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, for the sake of saying something.  ’It’s no use me staying.’

’Five to eleven.  If I run off at once I can catch the last train.  Good-night.  Tell Mr. Myatt, will you?’

She took his hand with a feeling of intimacy.

It seemed to her that they had shared many emotions that night.

‘I’ll let you out,’ she suggested, and in the obscurity of the narrow lobby they came into contact and shook hands again; she could not at first find the upper latch of the door.