’My Lord looks at his wife; looks at the Baron—­and suddenly alters his tone.  Does he perceive in the composure of the Countess and her brother something lurking under the surface that threatens him?  This is at least certain, he makes a clumsy apology for the language that he has used. (Abject wretch!)

’My Lord’s excuses are interrupted by the return of the Courier with the lemons and hot water.

’The Countess observes for the first time that the man looks ill.  His hands tremble as he places the tray on the table.  My Lord orders his Courier to follow him, and make the lemonade in the bedroom.  The Countess remarks that the Courier seems hardly capable of obeying his orders.  Hearing this, the man admits that he is ill.  He, too, is suffering from a cold; he has been kept waiting in a draught at the shop where he bought the lemons; he feels alternately hot and cold, and he begs permission to lie down for a little while on his bed.

’Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers to make the lemonade herself.  My Lord takes the Courier by the arm, leads him aside, and whispers these words to him:  “Watch her, and see that she puts nothing into the lemonade; then bring it to me with your own hands; and, then, go to bed, if you like.”

’Without a word more to his wife, or to the Baron, my Lord leaves the room.

’The Countess makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his master.

’Returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he says, so giddy, that he is obliged to support himself by the backs of the chairs as he passes them.  The Baron, always considerate to persons of low degree, offers his arm.  “I am afraid, my poor fellow,” he says, “that you are really ill.”  The Courier makes this extraordinary answer:  “It’s all over with me, Sir:  I have caught my death.”

’The Countess is naturally startled.  “You are not an old man,” she says, trying to rouse the Courier’s spirits.  “At your age, catching cold doesn’t surely mean catching your death?” The Courier fixes his eyes despairingly on the Countess.

“My lungs are weak, my Lady,” he says; “I have already had two attacks of bronchitis.  The second time, a great physician joined my own doctor in attendance on me.  He considered my recovery almost in the light of a miracle.  Take care of yourself,” he said.  “If you have a third attack of bronchitis, as certainly as two and two make four, you will be a dead man.  I feel the same inward shivering, my Lady, that I felt on those two former occasions—­and I tell you again, I have caught my death in Venice.”

’Speaking some comforting words, the Baron leads him to his room.  The Countess is left alone on the stage.

’She seats herself, and looks towards the door by which the Courier has been led out.  “Ah! my poor fellow,” she says, “if you could only change constitutions with my Lord, what a happy result would follow for the Baron and for me!  If you could only get cured of a trumpery cold with a little hot lemonade, and if he could only catch his death in your place—!”