“Do you not think what it would mean to—­me?”

The words broke from him against his will.

“To—­you, Jack! then you care—­still!”

“Care!”

He drew his hand away and walked over to the window.  The morning was breaking:  morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum without.

Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in them—­and then the lids fell over them.

“I feel strangely weak—­but—­so—­happy, Jack,” she said.  Her breath came more easily and she slept.

Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour, grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for another night’s vigil.

“She seems neither better nor worse,” said Saidie, meeting him in the little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her.  “She is very, very weak.  Is there a chance for her?”

“I am afraid to say—­it depends so much on what recuperative power she has.  If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful.”

“What is she to do, poor Bella?  She will never be able to sing again, I suppose?”

“Never.”  He spoke curtly, almost cruelly.  Saidie burst into tears.

At that moment came a smart tap at the door.

“Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss,” said a voice from without.

“He can’t come up.”  Saidie sprang from her chair.  But she was too late.  The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man walked in.

“Miss Blackhall—­how unkind to deny me admittance.  You must know how fearfully anxious I am.  How is she?”

“There’s the doctor—­ask him.”

The stranger turned eagerly.

“This is not serious, I trust.  She was always delicate, but—­it is wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over.”

For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.

Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella?  He forced himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew what he was saying.

“If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more, poor darling,” he said brokenly.  “I suppose I can go in, eh?”

His hand was on the door—­John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.

“No one must see her,” he cried excitedly.  “I absolutely forbid it.  It would be most dangerous—­most improper.”

The two men looked into each other’s faces for the space of several seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an impatient word.  “Absurd!  As if I could do her any harm,” he said.  “Well, I will be round again later in the day,” he added with a nod to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.