“... a bad attack, crumpled him up.  Coming out from the city now.”  They were talking about Felix Winscombe, who, it appeared, had been assaulted by a knife-like pain; and was returning to Myrtle Forge.  “Watlow saw no reason why it should be dangerous,” David continued; “he thinks perhaps it came from unusual exertions, entertaining.  A little rest, he says.  He thinks the Winscombes will be able to sail on the Lindamira as they planned.”

Ludowika listened seriously to Gilbert Penny’s few, temperate words of preparation.  “He has had a pain like that before,” she told them.  “It always passes away.  Felix is really very strong, in spite of his age.  He won’t ordinarily go to bed, but I’ll insist on that now, simply for rest.”  Felix Winscombe appeared at the supper hour.  He was helped out of Abner Forsythe’s leather-hung chaise, and assisted into the house.  Howat saw him under the hanging lamp in the hall; with a painful surprise he realized that he was gazing at the haggard face of an old man.  Before he had never connected the thought of definite age with Mr. Winscombe.  The man’s satirical virility had forbidden any of the patronage unconsciously extended to the aged.

A trace of his familiar, mocking smile remained, but it was tremulous; it required, Howat saw, great effort.  An involuntary admiration possessed him for the other’s unquenchable courage.  The latter protested vehemently against being led to his room by Ludowika; but she ignored his determination to go into supper, swept him away with a firm arm about his waist.

The house took on the slightly strange and disordered aspect of illness; voices were grave, low; in the morning Howat learned that Felix Winscombe had had another vicious attack in the night.  Dr. Watlow arrived, and demanded assistance.  Howat Penny, in the room where Ludowika’s husband lay exhausted in a bed canopied and draped in gay India silk, followed Watlow’s actions with a healthy feeling of revulsion.  The doctor bared Winscombe’s spare chest, then filled a shallow, thick glass with spirits; emptying the latter, he set fire to the interior of the glass; and, when the blue flame had expired, clapped the cupped interior over the prostrate man’s heart.  There was, it seemed, little else that could be done; bleeding was judged for the once unexpeditious.

An effort at commonplace conversation was maintained at dinner.  Ludowika openly discussed the arrangements for their return to London.  Felix Winscombe had rallied from the night; his wife said that it was difficult to restrain him.  The most comfortable provisions, she continued, had been made for their passage on the Lindamira.  Howat heard her without resentment.  He had no wish to contradict her needlessly even in thought; he was immovably fixed.  Mr. Winscombe’s debilitated return had completely upset his intentions.  An entirely different proceeding would now be demanded, but with an identical end.  What pity he felt for the elder had no power to reach or alter his passion.