“Oh, she’s very well,” she managed to say with a careless air.

“I’m glad to learn that she is not completely prostrated,” said Mr. Wynne warmly.  “Her devotion to Miss Wickham was perfectly wonderful.  Dr. Evans—­he’s my brother-in-law, you know—­told me no trained nurse could have been more competent.  She was like a daughter to Miss Wickham.”

“I suppose we’d better send for her,” said Mrs. Wickham coldly.

“Have you brought the——­” Wickham stopped in embarrassment.

“Yes, I have it in my pocket,” said the solicitor quickly.  He had noted before now how awkward people always were about speaking of wills.  There was nothing indelicate about doing so.  Heavens, all right-minded persons made their wills and they meant to have them read after they were dead.  Everybody knew that, and yet they always acted as if it were indecent to approach the subject.  He had no patience with such nonsense.

With an eloquent look at her husband, Mrs. Wickham slowly crossed the room to the bell.

“I’ll ring for Miss Marsh,” she said in a hard voice.

“I expect Mr. Wynne would like a cup of tea, Dorothy.”

She frowned at her husband behind the solicitor’s broad back.  More delays.  Could she bear it?  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I quite forgot about it.”

“No, thank you very much, I never take tea,” protested that gentleman.  He took from his pocket a long blue envelope and slowly drew from it the will, which he smoothed out with a deliberation which was maddening to Mrs. Wickham.  She could hardly tear her fascinated eyes away from it long enough to tell the waiting Kate to ask Miss Marsh to be good enough to come to them.

“What’s the time, Jim?” she asked nervously.

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” he said, looking at his watch without seeing it.  Then turning to Wynne, he added:  “We’ve got an important engagement this evening in London and we’re very anxious not to miss the fast train.”

“The train service down here is rotten,” said Mrs. Wickham harshly.

“That’s all right.  The will is very short.  It won’t take me two minutes to read it,” Mr. Wynne reassured them.

“What on earth is Miss Marsh doing?” said Mrs. Wickham, half to herself.  An endless minute passed.

“How pretty the garden is looking now,” said the solicitor cheerfully, gazing out through the window.

“Very,” Wickham managed to say.

“Miss Wickham was always so interested in her garden.”

“Yes.”

“My own tulips aren’t so advanced as those.”

“Aren’t they?” Wickham’s tone suggested irritation.

Mr. Wynne addressed his next observation to Mrs. Wickham.

“Are you interested in gardening?”

“No, I hate it.  At last!”

The exclamation was called forth by the appearance of Nora in the doorway.  The two men both, rose; Wynne to go forward and shake Nora’s hand with unaffected cordiality, Wickham to whisper in his wife’s ear, beseeching her to exercise more self-control.