“Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse.  The other night, I was waiting for the carriage in a draught (one of the most perfect private concerts of the season, ending with a delightfully naughty little French play)—­and I caught a slight cold.  A glass of water is all I want.  Thank you.  Romayne, you are looking shockingly serious and severe; our ball will cheer you.  If you would only make a bonfire of all those horrid books, you don’t know how it would improve your spirits.  Dearest Stella, I will come and lunch here to-morrow—­you are within such a nice easy drive from town—­and I’ll bring my visiting-book, and settle about the invitations and the day.  Oh, dear me, how late it is.  I have nearly an hour’s drive before I get to my garden party.  Good-by, my turtle doves good-by.”

She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of coughing.  But she still persisted in making light of it.  “I’m as strong as a horse,” she repeated, as soon as she could speak—­and skipped into the carriage like a young girl.

“Your mother is killing herself,” said Romayne.

“If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while,” Stella suggested, “the rest and quiet might do wonders for her.  Would you object to it, Lewis?”

“My darling, I object to nothing—­except giving a ball and burning my books.  If your mother will yield on these two points, my house is entirely at her disposal.”

He spoke playfully—­he looked his best, since he had separated himself from the painful associations that were now connected with Vange Abbey.  Had “the torment of the Voice” been left far away in Yorkshire?  Stella shrank from approaching the subject in her husband’s presence, knowing that it must remind him of the fatal duel.  To her surprise, Romayne himself referred to the General’s family.

“I have written to Hynd,” he began.  “Do you mind his dining with us to-day?”

“Of course not!”

“I want to hear if he has anything to tell me—­about those French ladies.  He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to ascertain—­” He was unable to overcome his reluctance to pronounce the next words.  Stella was quick to understand what he meant.  She finished the sentence for him.

“Yes,” he said, “I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and if there is any hope of curing him.  Is it—­” he trembled as he put the question—­“Is it hereditary madness?”

Feeling the serious importance of concealing the truth, Stella only replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint of madness in the family.  “I suppose,” she added, “you would not like to see the boy, and judge of his chances of recovery for yourself?”

“You suppose?” he burst out, with sudden anger.  “You might be sure.  The bare idea of seeing him turns me cold.  Oh, when shall I forget! when shall I forget!  Who spoke of him first?” he said, with renewed irritability, after a moment of silence.  “You or I?”