Mrs Saunders took Minette away, and Mr Wenlock, a gentle-looking, elderly medical man, a great friend of Rowland’s, made his appearance.

Netta rose with a little attempt at her Parisian curtsey, and an effort to assume her Abertewey manners; but she soon forgot her grandeur when the doctor spoke to her in a soothing, fatherly way, and won her to confide her long-concealed illness to him.  Rowland left them together, and went down to Mrs Saunders’ parlour to amuse his little niece.

In something less-than half-an-hour he was joined by Mr Wenlock, who took Minette on his knee, and looked at her thin cheeks and hollow eyes, felt her weak pulse, and asked her many questions.

When she went upstairs to her mother, Mr Wenlock said,—­

’The poor lady is very ill, dangerously, I fear.  She must have had some heavy sorrows for years to have reduced her to her present state of nervousness, nearly amounting to insanity, but not quite.  This may yet be warded off with great care, total freedom from all excitement, and change of air and scene.  She has heart complaint of an alarming nature.  This can never be cured; but if her strength can be restored, she may live for years—­her natural life, in short—­or she may be taken at any moment.  Any sudden shock would probably be fatal.’

Rowland had not told Mr Wenlock that Netta was his sister.  When he heard his opinion, so clearly and unreservedly expressed, he was greatly distressed.

‘She will not be moved from these lodgings,’ he said.  ’She positively refuses.  Will it do to oblige her to leave?’

’By no means.  But I hear that admirable young woman, whom I call our Sister of Charity, Miss Gladys, has undertaken to nurse her.  If any one can persuade her to submit to go elsewhere she will do it.  It should be into the country.  To her native air, if possible.’

Just at this juncture, Gladys returned, and Rowland called her into the consultation.  Mr Wenlock continued,—­

’Lead her to think of her child, who is also in a most delicate state.  Tell her, that change of air, country air, is absolutely necessary for her—­which it really is—­but she must not be taken from her mother.  Distract her mind as much as possible from the trouble, whatever it is, that oppresses it.  Had she been left much longer to herself, she would have quite lost her reason.  Let her see such friends as can be trusted to talk to her cheerfully and to amuse, without wearying her.  If you undertake this office, Miss Gladys, you will require all your patience, and more than your natural health; and once undertaken, you must not give it up, for she will get used to you, and depend upon you.  Poor thing! poor thing!  I have seen many such cases, and never need to inquire much into private history to know their origin.  Wicked, morose, unfeeling, cruel husbands are generally at the root, and God only knows what their victims have to bear.  There will be a pretty large account to make up at the Great Day, Mr Prothero, between man and wife, of marriage vows broken, and feelings outraged.’