’He observes that the Countess is listening to him, and asks if she has anything to propose.  She is a woman who, with many defects, has the great merit of speaking out.  “Is there no such thing as a serious illness,” she asks, “corked up in one of those bottles of yours in the vaults downstairs?”

’The Baron answers by gravely shaking his head.  What is he afraid of?—­ a possible examination of the body after death?  No:  he can set any post-mortem examination at defiance.  It is the process of administering the poison that he dreads.  A man so distinguished as my Lord cannot be taken seriously ill without medical attendance.  Where there is a Doctor, there is always danger of discovery.  Then, again, there is the Courier, faithful to my Lord as long as my Lord pays him.  Even if the Doctor sees nothing suspicious, the Courier may discover something.  The poison, to do its work with the necessary secrecy, must be repeatedly administered in graduated doses.  One trifling miscalculation or mistake may rouse suspicion.  The insurance offices may hear of it, and may refuse to pay the money.  As things are, the Baron will not risk it, and will not allow his sister to risk it in his place.

’My Lord himself is the next character who appears.  He has repeatedly rung for the Courier, and the bell has not been answered.  “What does this insolence mean?”

’The Countess (speaking with quiet dignity—­for why should her infamous husband have the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he has wounded her?) reminds my Lord that the Courier has gone to the post.  My Lord asks suspiciously if she has looked at the letter.  The Countess informs him coldly that she has no curiosity about his letters.  Referring to the cold from which he is suffering, she inquires if he thinks of consulting a medical man.  My Lord answers roughly that he is quite old enough to be capable of doctoring himself.

’As he makes this reply, the Courier appears, returning from the post.  My Lord gives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons.  He proposes to try hot lemonade as a means of inducing perspiration in bed.  In that way he has formerly cured colds, and in that way he will cure the cold from which he is suffering now.

’The Courier obeys in silence.  Judging by appearances, he goes very reluctantly on this second errand.

’My Lord turns to the Baron (who has thus far taken no part in the conversation) and asks him, in a sneering tone, how much longer he proposes to prolong his stay in Venice.  The Baron answers quietly, “Let us speak plainly to one another, my Lord.  If you wish me to leave your house, you have only to say the word, and I go.”  My Lord turns to his wife, and asks if she can support the calamity of her brother’s absence—­laying a grossly insulting emphasis on the word “brother.”  The Countess preserves her impenetrable composure; nothing in her betrays the deadly hatred with which she regards the titled ruffian who has insulted her.  “You are master in this house, my Lord,” is all she says.  “Do as you please.”