“My business is somewhat important,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with a good deal of confidence in the truth of what she said.

Gibson, however, approached her, and, with the air of a man who was in possession of the secrets of the family, said, “Perhaps, ma’am, you come on behalf of Miss Gourlay?”

“Whatever my business may be,” she replied, indignantly, “be it important or otherwise, I never communicate it through the medium of a servant; I mean you no offence,” she proceeded; “but as I have already stated that it is of importance, I trust that will be sufficient for the present.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” replied Gibson, “I only put the question by Sir Thomas’s express orders.  His state of health is such, that unless upon that subject he can see no one.  I will go to him, however, and mention what you have said.  He is very ill, however, exceedingly ill, and I fear will not be able to see you; but I shall try.”

Sir Thomas was seated upon a sofa reading some book or other, when Gibson reappeared.

“Well, Gibson, who is this?”

“A lady, sir; and she says she wishes to see you on very important business.”

“Hum!—­do you think it anything connected with Miss Gourlay?”

“I put the question to her, sir,” replied the other, “and she bridled a good deal—­I should myself suppose it is.”

“Well, then, throw me over my dressing-gown and nightcap; here, pull it up behind, you blockhead;—­there now—­how do I look?”

“Why, ahem, a little too much in health, Sir Thomas, if it could be avoided.”

“But, you stupid rascal, isn’t that a sign of fever? and isn’t my complaint fulness about the head—­a tendency of blood there?  That will do now; yes, the plethoric complexion to a shade; and, by the way, it is no joke either.  Send her up now.”

When Mrs. Mainwaring entered, the worthy invalid was lying incumbent upon the sofa, his head raised high upon pillows, with his dressing-gown and night-cap on, and his arms stretched along by his sides, as if he were enduring great pain.

“Oh, Mrs. Norton,” said he, after she had courtesied, “how do you do?”

“I am sorry to see you ill, Sir Thomas,” she replied, “I hope there is nothing serious the matter.”

“I wish I myself could hope so, Mrs. Norton.”

“Excuse me, Sir Thomas, I am no longer Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Mainwaring, at your service.”

“Ah, indeed!  Then you have changed your condition, as they say.  Well, I hope it is for the better, Mrs. Mainwaring; I wish you all joy and happiness!”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas, it is for the better; I am very happily married.”

“I am glad to hear it—­I am very glad to hear it; that is to say, if I can be glad at anything.  I feel very ill, Mrs. Mainwaring, very ill, indeed; and this blunt, plain-spoken doctor of mine gives me but little comfort.  Not that I care much about any doctor’s opinion—­it is what I feel myself that troubles me.  You are not aware, perhaps, that my daughter has abandoned me—­deserted me—­and left me solitary—­sick—­ill; without care—­without attendance—­without consolation;—­and all because I wished to make her happy.”