“Not at all; you have displayed the utmost tact.  But I think I had better go.  Jansenius can bear death and misery with perfect fortitude when it is on a large scale and hidden in a back slum.  But when it breaks into his own house, and attacks his property—­his daughter was his property until very recently—­he is just the man to lose his head and quarrel with me for keeping mine.”

The doctor was unable to cope with this speech, which conveyed vaguely monstrous ideas to him.  Seeing Trefusis about to leave, he said in a low voice:  “Will you go upstairs?”

“Upstairs!  Why?”

“I—­I thought you might wish to see—­” He did not finish the sentence, but Trefusis flinched; the blank had expressed what was meant.

“To see something that was Henrietta, and that is a thing we must cast out and hide, with a little superstitious mumming to save appearances.  Why did you remind me of it?”

“But, sir, whatever your views may be, will you not, as a matter of form, in deference to the feelings of the family—­”

“Let them spare their feelings for the living, on whose behalf I have often appealed to them in vain,” cried Trefusis, losing patience.  “Damn their feelings!” And, turning to the door, he found it open, and Mrs. Jansenius there listening.

Trefusis was confounded.  He knew what the effect of his speech must be, and felt that it would be folly to attempt excuse or explanation.  He put his hands into his pockets, leaned against the table, and looked at her, mutely wondering what would follow on her part.

The doctor broke the silence by saying tremulously, “I have communicated the melancholy intelligence to Mr. Trefusis.”

“I hope you told him also,” she said sternly, “that, however deficient we may be in feeling, we did everything that lay in our power for our child.”

“I am quite satisfied,” said Trefusis.

“No doubt you are—­with the result,” said Mrs. Jansenius, hardly.  “I wish to know whether you have anything to complain of.”

“Nothing.”

“Please do not imply that anything has happened through our neglect.”

“What have I to complain of?  She had a warm room and a luxurious bed to die in, with the best medical advice in the world.  Plenty of people are starving and freezing to-day that we may have the means to die fashionably; ask them if they have any cause for complaint.  Do you think I will wrangle over her body about the amount of money spent on her illness?  What measure is that of the cause she had for complaint?  I never grudged money to her—­how could I, seeing that more than I can waste is given to me for nothing?  Or how could you?  Yet she had great reason to complain of me.  You will allow that to be so.”

“It is perfectly true.”

“Well, when I am in the humor for it, I will reproach myself and not you.”  He paused, and then turned forcibly on her, saying, “Why do you select this time, of all others, to speak so bitterly to me?”