But he found her in the hospital very much hurt indeed.  She had been smashed in some complicated manner that left the upper part of her body intact, and lying slantingly upon pillows.  Over the horror of bandaged broken limbs and tormented flesh below sheets and a counterpane were drawn.  Morphia had been injected, he understood, to save her from pain, but presently it might be necessary for her to suffer.  She lay up in her bed with an effect of being enthroned, very white and still, her strong profile with its big nose and her straggling hair and a certain dignity gave her the appearance of some very important, very old man, of an aged pope for instance, rather than of an old woman.  She had made no remark after they had set her and dressed her and put her to bed except “send for Hughie Britling, The Dower House, Matching’s Easy.  He is the best of the bunch.”  She had repeated the address and this commendation firmly over and over again, in large print as it were, even after they had assured her that a telegram had been despatched.

In the night, they said, she had talked of him.

He was not sure at first that she knew of his presence.

“Here I am, Aunt Wilshire,” he said.

She gave no sign.

“Your nephew Hugh.”

“Mean and preposterous,” she said very distinctly.

But she was not thinking of Mr. Britling.  She was talking of something else.

She was saying:  “It should not have been known I was here.  There are spies everywhere.  Everywhere.  There is a spy now—­or a lump very like a spy.  They pretend it is a hot-water bottle.  Pretext....  Oh, yes!  I admit—­absurd.  But I have been pursued by spies.  Endless spies.  Endless, endless spies.  Their devices are almost incredible....  He has never forgiven me....

“All this on account of a carpet.  A palace carpet.  Over which I had no control.  I spoke my mind.  He knew I knew of it.  I never concealed it.  So I was hunted.  For years he had meditated revenge.  Now he has it.  But at what a cost!  And they call him Emperor.  Emperor!

“His arm is withered; his son—­imbecile.  He will die—­without dignity....”

Her voice weakened, but it was evident she wanted to say something more.

“I’m here,” said Mr. Britling.  “Your nephew Hughie.”

She listened.

“Can you understand me?” he asked.

She became suddenly an earnest, tender human being.  “My dear!” she said, and seemed to search for something in her mind and failed to find it.

“You have always understood me,” she tried.

“You have always been a good boy to me, Hughie,” she said, rather vacantly, and added after some moments of still reflection, “au fond.”

After that she was silent for some minutes, and took no notice of his whispers.

Then she recollected what had been in her mind.  She put out a hand that sought for Mr. Britling’s sleeve.